Please Kill My Husband (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 8

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Ludmila rarely crossed the threshold of the hospital herself. Usually, if a doctor was needed, she simply summoned them.

Some called it a privilege afforded by power, but in truth, it was an indispensable measure to avoid unnecessary suspicion and rumors.

Especially for gynecological consultations, which covered sensitive conditions like childbirth, such scrutiny intensified.

“Are you really alright?”

Before Ludmila had even stepped down from the carriage, Emma had already repeated her question for what must have been the fifth time.

Holding a frilly parasol, Ludmila cut off Emma’s inquiry with a brief nod.

If she entered the maternity ward like this today, the rumors would surely spiral beyond control.

For over three years, the couple had given no news regarding an heir, and many had grown suspicious.

Ludmila paid no mind to such gossip—after all, these rumors caused her no harm.

The more infertile she appeared, the more Kedilen would be pleased.

What mattered to him wasn’t trivial gossip, but weightier matters tied to his own advancement.

In that sense, playing the role of a husband with a barren wife was quite useful to Kedilen.

He could gain sympathy and cultivate an image of genuinely cherishing and loving such a wife.

For nobles who needed heirs, a wife unable to bear children was a serious disqualification.

As the vanguard of the newly risen nobility, many set their sights on him.

They hadn’t missed the vulnerability in his otherwise solid household.

Daughters, cousins—none held back, all scheming to become Kedilen’s concubine.

The moment Ludmila proved barren, it no longer mattered whether it was a concubine or mistress.

Once a child was born between Kedilen and his concubine, Ludmila would cease to be his legitimate wife.

Kedilen, with his cunning mind, understood this situation and stance perfectly.

Sowing just enough ambiguity to win people’s interest and favor—what could be easier to exploit than this?

Ludmila clearly understood that his attitude also benefited her.

At the very least, it spared her the unpleasant obligation of sharing his bed.

But now, Kedilen had changed his stance.

After his meeting with Speaker Bex, he’d concluded there was nothing more to gain by trading on Ludmila’s rumors.

That decision felt to Ludmila like a personal death sentence.

“Marchioness… just this one last time…”

“Nurse.”

Despite Ludmila’s firm refusal, Emma, undeterred, opened her mouth again.

At that instant, Ludmila’s sharp tone silenced Emma’s wrinkled lips.

With a faint shake of her head and a gentle smile, Ludmila opened the carriage door.

She heard Emma mutter behind her, “Ugh, that stubborn woman!”—but she didn’t feel the need to deny it.

After all, it was precisely that stubbornness that had brought her here in person. Ludmila needed certainty, not rumors.

She sought an event that would put a definitive end to the speculation swirling around her—an incident that would make Kedilen see no need to hold her close ever again.

Ludmila wanted to turn the circulating gossip from mere falsehood into undeniable truth.

“Thank you for visiting our hospital, Marchioness Erdi.”

The moment she opened the door, a neatly dressed middle-aged man stood waiting at the entrance.

So this must be the hospital’s director. Ludmila stepped down from the carriage, offering him a perfectly practiced smile as she approached.

Simultaneously, she scanned the commotion before the grand hospital building, noting those who showed interest.

Ludmila appeared in newspapers several times a day.

Those who recognized her kept glancing between her and the sign atop the four-story building.

Their reactions pleased her enough that she followed the director inside with a hint of satisfaction.

Emma trailed behind, murmuring anxiously, “Oh dear, what have you done?”—but the die was already cast.

And it was exactly what Ludmila had wanted. Like spreading plague, she hoped their lips would carry her story to others.

A newspaper article would be even better.

“This way, please.”

They passed through the main entrance and headed straight for the patient waiting room.

As one of the capital’s more renowned hospitals, the waiting room was already filled with numerous women.

True to the capital’s women—ever sensitive to gossip and sharp to rumor—they instantly recognized Ludmila.

Some stared in surprise, speculating why she was here; others looked pleased, as if confirming they’d made the right choice by coming to this hospital.

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Which also meant they were ready to spread word of everything that happened here.

“Please, have a seat right here.”

The impeccably dressed director stepped aside and personally offered his chair. Though known for his arrogance, his skill was widely acknowledged.

Despite frequent complaints about his service, the high volume of patients proved his worth—in one way or another.

“Um, Marchioness… shall we begin soon…?”

As soon as Ludmila took her seat, the director, sitting opposite, brightened.

Ludmila glanced at him, noting the overly affable smile plastered across his face.

This examination room was far too ornate for a medical facility.

Tasteless porcelain that only nouveaux riches would admire, meaningless “masterpieces,” and furniture made of needlessly expensive white pine—it all reeked of greed.

He must truly love money. Normally, she’d disdain such a man—but not today.

Ludmila rolled her eyes back to him and fixed her gaze.

“I’ve heard you’re the most skilled gynecologist in the capital.”

“Heh-heh! That rumor reached even your ears, Marchioness? How embarrassing.”

“They say your humility matches your skill.”

“Well, I always keep quiet—nothing is more distasteful than boasting about one’s own achievements.”

Despite calling boasting distasteful, he immediately sang his own praises—an unseemly sight—but Ludmila found it rather welcome.

After all, it was precisely that eager, flattery-loving mouth that had drawn her here.

“Oh, I’ve talked too much. Now then—what seems to be the trouble? Shall I examine you…?”

“No examination is necessary.”

“Hm?”

At the director’s surprised reaction, Ludmila produced a small pouch and held it out.

The jingle of coins sparked a gleam in his eyes. With a poised smile, she gave him a meaningful glance.

Even such a subtle gesture carried an air of haughty grace.

Cautiously reading her expression, the director slowly opened the pouch. Inside lay a platinum coin.

“This is…”

“Neoferd II, whose likeness adorns that coin, died of a long-standing illness—despite winning his final battle. Fearing his army’s morale would falter if they learned of his condition, he ordered his physician to declare him perfectly healthy.”

Her flat, emotionless tone sounded like a doll reciting lines, yet it carried a tension that made listeners gulp.

The director moistened his dry lips and spoke carefully.

“That story…”

“I’m glad you’re quick to understand. I need the diagnosis I want. Surely this amount makes it possible?”

“Well, but…”

“If you refuse, just say so. I’ve other hospitals in mind—plenty of doctors would take this money.”

Watching the director bite his lip, Ludmila slowly rose from her seat.

Prolonging this conversation would yield nothing good. Leaving before he could fully weigh his decision was the surest way to hold the upper hand.

“I need your statement that I’m infertile. With just those words, you’ll earn a great deal of money.”

“…”

“I do hope you’ll make the wise choice.”

There was nothing more to say. Now she only needed to return home and wait.

At the latest, the statement would arrive by tomorrow evening—and once confirmed, she could end this tiresome charade.

Ludmila gave the stunned director a final, polite smile and turned to leave the room.

The click of the closing door drew every woman’s gaze.

Standing before the door, Ludmila deliberately cast a sorrowful glance around the room before walking away.

“Ludmila?”

Just then, a sharp voice calling her name pierced Ludmila’s ears.

Familiar hazel eyes beneath lustrous brown hair.

“…Countess von Wyrn.”

Celia von Wyrn—eldest daughter of the Erdi Marquisate and Kedilen’s elder sister—approached, arms crossed.

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With an elegant gesture, Celia placed her teacup on the coaster and crossed her legs with ease.

Seated in the refined tearoom, she fit the atmosphere perfectly.

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Ludmila stared blankly at Celia, who—despite it being early winter—was dressed as if it were a bright spring day.

Meeting Celia was never welcome for Ludmila.

Celia took immense pride in being the eldest daughter of the Erdi Marquisate.

Thus, she always hinted at Ludmila’s bastard origins, implying Kedilen deserved a better bride.

Though Ludmila had heard it countless times from Kedilen himself, whenever Celia visited, Kedilen’s expression always turned funereal.

And that anger inevitably fell squarely upon her.

“I’m surprised. I never expected to see you coming out of there.”

“I heard that doctor was skilled, so I came for a consultation.”

“His skill isn’t bad, I suppose. Still, it’s unexpected to see you visiting in person.”

Celia smiled faintly, adjusted her crossed legs, and gently straightened her posture.

“By the way, I was shocked. You never seemed interested in children, yet suddenly you’re at the hospital.”

“…”

“So you’ve finally made up your mind?”

Celia, gazing at her through narrowed eyes, gently rested her chin in her palm.

“To taint the Erdi Marquisate with that filthy blood of yours.”

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