Thirty Days to Disappear My Billionaire Husband's Regret

Prologue To clear his precious first love, Chloe, my husband committed perjury on the witness stand. He had no idea his lie cost my father his life. Under his relentless pressure, I signed the settlement waiver. At the same time, I signed an agreement to fake my death. In thirty days, I would vanish from this world completely. When Chloe wore my clothes, moved into my bedroom, and forced me to put on a maid's uniform, I just smiled and took the clothes. Shield her all you want, Ethan. When the news of my death breaks, I can't wait to see if you can still proclaim her innocence with a clear conscience. Harper’s POV "Ms. Harper, here is your customized plan to fake your death." Inside the car, the man in the passenger seat handed me an agreement. "Ms. Harper, please confirm the details." "In thirty days, when the plan goes into effect, we will execute it using a homicide scenario. Irreversible evidence of death will be left at the scene. Once signed, Harper will cease to exist in New York." Outside the tinted window, blinding camera flashes lit up the courthouse steps. Dozens of mainstream media outlets pointed their lenses at the doors. Ethan stood tall in a tailored suit, draping his wool overcoat around the shoulders of the woman beside him. Chloe’s eyes were red, and Ethan used one arm to shield her from the flashing lenses, his face cold and resolute. The car's dashboard screen streamed the live audio from the steps with zero delay. "Mr. Vance, as the key witness in this case, you testified under oath that Ms. Chloe was with you the entire evening. Does this completely clear her of the charges regarding negligent freezing death?" Ethan faced the microphones, his gaze steady, his voice crisp: "Chloe was with me in the banquet hall from beginning to end. She never set foot in the back kitchen's walk-in freezer. She is completely innocent. The Vance Group will exhaust all legal resources to hold the rumor mongers accountable." Inside the car, flashes of light refracted through the rain, washing over my pale face. Rumor monger. The vicious slanderer he spoke of was his legal wife of three years. And the innocent woman he cradled in his arms was the real killer who had locked my father in a deep-freeze locker all night. "Ms. Harper?" the contact beside me prompted softly. I pulled my gaze back, fighting down the burning rage clawing at my chest. Looking down, I pulled another document from my purse—the one Ethan had shoved at me in the lounge an hour ago. He wanted me to sign a settlement waiver, forgiving the killer. His cold voice still echoed in my ears: "If you don't sign, your father's body will be processed as unclaimed and sent straight to the incinerator." "Chloe took a blow for me a year ago. I owe her my life. I have to protect her, even if it means going against you." I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, I had a pen in hand. It was the fountain pen Ethan had held my hand with three years ago on our wedding day, using it to write our vows. It was his token of love. Now, with that very pen, I signed both documents. The first was the Settlement Waiver. Signature: Harper. The second was the Entrusted Protocol for Staged Death. Principal: Harper. Countdown: Thirty days. I tossed the pen out the window into the rain. "The deposit has been wired from my private account. It’s my lawful share of marital assets, more than enough to cover your final balance." I handed the agreement back, my voice completely flat. "Make the scene look real in thirty days. Don't let him find any flaws." The man took the papers and handed me a pristine burner phone. "As you wish. We move in thirty days sharp." I pushed open the car door, popped an ordinary black umbrella, and stepped into the freezing downpour. I turned back to look at that man one last time. On the courthouse steps, Ethan was already escorting Chloe into the back seat of his Maybach. The sleek black vehicle roared past me, splashing dirty puddle water across the cuffs of my pants. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Ethan: "Chloe was terrified by the reporters and has a fever. I'm taking her home to rest. I'll make the guarantee call to the morgue later. Be reasonable. Stop throwing tantrums." The morgue's cremation cutoff was three o'clock sharp. Standing in the rain, I glanced down at my watch: 2:45 PM. By regulation, once a criminal case closed, family members had until 3:00 PM to pay the deposit and provide a release guarantee. Otherwise, the body was automatically swept into the daily 3:00 PM batch of unclaimed public cremations. Once rolled into the furnace, the ashes were sealed directly into the communal vault wall. Families couldn't even retrieve an urn. From the courthouse to the city morgue, the drive took at least forty minutes in this downpour. Without Ethan’s guaranteed call to put a hold on the system, only fifteen minutes remained before the automated incinerator locked in. He knew the rules. Yet, for Chloe, he shoved my father into the abyss. I curled my lips into a bitter smirk, permanently deleted the message, and blocked his number. I walked to the curb and hailed a yellow cab. "City morgue, please." I knew I wouldn't make it. But as his daughter, I had to be there to witness the cold, bitter end. Tires sliced through standing water, merging into the crawling traffic. The cab pulled up to the morgue gates. The clock read 3:20 PM. Twenty minutes too late.Harper’s POV I paid the driver and stepped out. I hadn't made it in time after all. I shook out my umbrella and walked briskly into the cold, cavernous administration hall. The clerk behind the desk pulled up the system records and slid a confirmation slip across the counter. "Thomas. By 3:00 PM, no financial guarantee or extension request was received. The system executed cremation at 3:00 PM sharp. Remains are not eligible for private release and have been interned in the courtyard's communal memorial wall. Please sign to acknowledge." "Alright. Thank you." With bloodless fingers, I took the lightweight slip of paper. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. From the moment I read Ethan's text, I had braced myself for this very second. Holding the paper, I walked through the side corridor out to the courtyard's concrete wall. My eyes scanned the endless rows of tiny niches, finally stopping at slot number 073. There was no photo. Only black spray-painted numbers on the cold stone. I walked up and raised a trembling hand to touch it. "Dad, just bear it a little longer," I choked out, a raw sob catching in my throat. "In thirty days, I'll take you away from here. We'll never come back." Days of starvation combined with my chronic stomach ulcer hit back with savage intensity. A violent, twisting spasm seized my gut. Darkness swarmed my vision. Before I could make a sound, I collapsed silently against the cold concrete steps. ... When I woke up, the smell of sterile antiseptic flooded my senses. "You're awake?" The floor nurse walked in to swap out the IV bag. "A Good Samaritan brought you in after you collapsed in the pouring rain outside the morgue. Extreme emotional distress on top of severe malnutrition. Your body is wrecked. You can't just run around like that." I didn't answer. I reached up and ripped the IV needle straight out of the back of my hand. A string of crimson droplets splashed onto the pristine white sheets. I didn't even flinch. I fished the divorce filing receipt from my bag. My fingertips traced the edges of the paper. Twenty-nine days left. In twenty-nine days, the plan would execute, and my existence would be wiped clean from the earth. Before that, every single debt owed to me would be collected, with interest. Leaving the clinic, I hailed a cab straight to the Vance estate. By the time I pushed open the front doors, the sky had turned pitch black. The living room was brightly lit, the central heat blasting. Ethan sat on the sofa with a bowl of oatmeal, patiently blowing on each spoonful before lifting it to the lips of the woman beside him. Chloe leaned against his shoulder, scrolling through her phone and giggling: "Ethan, I already posted the settlement waiver Harper signed on Twitter. Everyone is calling her a gold-digging bitch, saying she used her dead dad to extort my family. Let public opinion teach her a lesson. You're not allowed to take her side." Ethan's hand paused slightly on the spoon. His throat bobbed, and he muttered quietly, "She went too far this time. A lesson won't hurt." The click of the front door interrupted them. Both turned their heads and saw me standing in the foyer. I wore thin, damp clothes, my face as white as a sheet of paper. But my spine was rod-straight, and my eyes were as cold as a frozen lake. Seeing me, a flicker of panic crossed Ethan's eyes. He set the bowl down, his tone softening instinctively: "Where have you been? You blocked my calls. What happened to your forehead?" "The morgue." I slipped off my wet shoes, my voice raspy yet eerily calm. "Visiting my dad's new home." Ethan froze. A wave of guilt washed over his features, quickly replaced by his usual defensive impatience. "It's already done. Why do you keep bringing it up...?" Chloe blinked innocently, putting on a fragile act. "Harper, wasn't your dad cremated through the public service? Ethan is closing a massive merger right now. Please don't ruin his mood over this." I turned, my gaze piercing right through her delicate, venomous face. A cold smile touched my lips. "Don't worry, Chloe. That niche on the wall might be small, but it's clean. Far cleaner than this mansion you're sitting in." Chloe's expression shifted instantly. Tears welled in her eyes as she tugged at Ethan's sleeve. "Ethan, look at her... she's still cursing me." "Harper!" Ethan snapped, his brow furrowing deep. "How dare you speak to Chloe like that? She's still recovering. She can't handle stress!" Looking at him made me sick to my stomach. I turned and headed for the stairs. "Wait." Chloe called out, throwing a subtle look at the maid standing nearby. The maid stepped forward timidly, carrying a silver tray. On it rested a folded maid's uniform. "Harper, we hired quite a few new staff members who don't recognize you," Chloe purred from Ethan's arms, her tone dripping with sweet malice. "To make sure the staff knows who is the mistress and who is the servant, why don't you wear this from now on?" Dead silence fell over the living room. Ethan sat on the sofa, casually flipping through a folder on the coffee table. He didn't even lift his eyes, quietly condoning the sheer humiliation. I looked down at the uniform. I didn't explode in fury. I didn't shed a single tear. I reached out with cold, steady fingers and took the fabric. "Chloe makes a good point," I said, looking right into her smug eyes, my voice chilled to the bone. "When people are blind and deaf, if you don't dress clearly, it really is hard to tell who's human and who's a monster in this house." The smug smirk on Chloe's face froze solid. I didn't linger. I walked straight upstairs. Late that night, the master bedroom door was pushed open. Chloe walked in clutching a medical report, looking fragile and pathetic. "Ethan, the doctor said I suffer from severe night terrors and need the room with the best sunlight. The north guest room barely gets any sun, and I keep having nightmares..." Ethan glanced at the diagnosis for nervous exhaustion, then at Chloe's pale face. His guilt seemed to magnify exponentially. He turned toward me where I sat on the edge of the bed looking at a desk calendar. His tone sounded like a suggestion, but it was an absolute command: "Harper, move to the north guest room for a few days. Once Chloe feels better, you can move back." I shut the calendar. Of the thirty squares, the first had just been crossed out with a thick, red line. Twenty-eight days left.Harper’s POV "A few days?" I slowly lifted my head, my eyes as dead as stagnant water. "Ethan, how many days is 'a few days'?" Ethan averted his gaze. "Until her vitals stabilize..." "And when she's all better, I move back?" I cut him off with a quiet, mocking laugh. "Do you honestly think I still want this room?" Ethan flinched. "Harper, don't talk like that." "I'm giving you two what you want." I stood up, pulled down my carry-on bag, and packed only a few changes of my own clothes. The expensive jewelry Ethan had bought me over the years remained untouched in the drawers. As I walked out of the master suite, Chloe stood leaning against the doorframe, wearing the smirk of a victor. I stopped right beside her and murmured: "Enjoy the room, Chloe. Enjoy the man, too." "Because very soon, every single debt you owe will be paid back in full." Chloe froze. Before she could snap back, I dragged my bag down the hall and stepped into the damp, chilly guest room at the end of the corridor. "Slam." The door shut tight. A few days later, Chloe invited several socialite friends over for afternoon tea. I walked past the living room carrying a tray and heard their laughter drifting out. "Chloe, Ethan is totally head over heels for you. He said it himself years ago—if you woke up, he’d divorce Harper in a heartbeat." Another voice chimed in: "Seriously. During the year you were in a coma, he kept flying abroad just to care for you personally." My steps paused for half a second. The china cup clinked against the saucer. I didn't stop; I kept walking. "Hold on." Chloe called out from behind. "Harper, you brewed this tea completely wrong. Take it back and make a fresh pot." I didn't turn around. I kept walking toward the kitchen. "Are you deaf? She's talking to you!" One of the women bolted upright, grabbed the teapot off the table, rushed over, and dumped the scalding water right at my feet. The boiling water soaked through my pant legs, the intense heat scorching my skin. I winced, standing rooted to the spot without making a sound. "Get on your knees and clean it up," the woman barked, crossing her arms. "Use that apron you're wearing. You think Chloe's fine tea is meant to be wasted by the likes of you?" I didn't move. "She told you to kneel! Don't you speak English?" Another woman closed in, shoving my shoulder hard. I glanced over at the couch. Chloe cradled her teacup, gently blowing across the surface, a delicate smile playing on her lips. I crouched down, untied my apron, and pressed the fabric against the soaked floor. Suddenly, the front door swung wide. "Stop it!" Ethan stormed into the living room. Seeing me kneeling on the floor, his face darkened instantly. He crossed the room in long strides, grabbed my wrist, pulled me up, and shoved me behind his back. "Who gave you permission to treat her like this?" Ethan glared at the women gathered in the room. I stood behind him, the warmth of his palm still lingering on my skin. "Ethan..." Chloe suddenly clutched her stomach, collapsing against the cushions, her face pale as a ghost. "It hurts... my stomach hurts so badly..." Ethan whipped around. "What happened?" "Harper..." Chloe trembled violently. "She put crushed peanuts in the pastries. She knows I've been deathly allergic since I was a child..." Ethan's expression changed on the spot. He turned back to look at me, every ounce of warmth vanishing from his eyes. "You did this?" "I didn't," I rasped. "The pastries were store-bought. She's setting me up!" "Enough." Ethan cut me off, scooped Chloe into his arms, and headed for the door. At the threshold, he stopped, his back turned to me. "Take that shattered tea set and dump it on the gravel path in the courtyard." "Pick up every single shard before sundown." "No gloves. And nobody helps her." I stood in the center of the living room, watching the heavy doors slam shut. Two in the afternoon. The summer heat radiated off the stone. I knelt on the gravel path in the yard, reaching down to pick up the jagged shards of broken porcelain. The sharp edges sliced into my palms. Blood mixed with sweat, dripping onto the stones. I picked them up piece by piece from afternoon until twilight, my hands and forearms covered in bleeding cuts. As darkness fell, my vision blurred, and I collapsed forward into the gravel. Before losing consciousness, I heard the maids whispering under the veranda. "Of all people to cross, she had to pick Chloe." "Doesn't she know who Mr. Vance really cares about?" When I woke up, I was lying on the small bed in the first-floor guest room. Ethan sat at the bedside. Seeing my eyes flutter open, he let out a breath, though his tone remained laced with reprimand. "I know you feel wronged, but you can't try to hurt Chloe. Her body just recovered; she can't handle shocks like that." I looked at him, curling my lips weakly. "You just believe everything she says, don't you?" Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted. "Enough. I already had people take care of your father's arrangements. Stop making a scene." "Chloe is in terrible shape right now. Insomnia every night." He paused, looking down at me. "Her psychic said the person who traumatized her needs to hand-peel ten pounds of fresh shrimp overnight. Only eating that will help her recover." I stared at him, stunned. He had waited here for me to wake up not out of concern for my wounds, but because he needed me in the kitchen peeling shrimp.Harper’s POV I lifted both of my gauze-wrapped hands, holding them up between us. The bandages were soaked through with dark red blood, stain upon stain. "Ethan, my hands are shredded. Are you blind?" My voice was completely hoarse. Ethan looked out the window, avoiding my hands. "This has to be done tonight." "If you won't do it yourself, I'll have the guards hold you down and make you do it." He stood up, his tone cold and rigid. "Chloe hasn't kept food down all day. Ten pounds of shrimp meat. On the counter before dawn." My eyes burned, but no tears fell. "And if I'd rather die than peel them? Are you going to smash another porcelain set and force me onto my knees to pick it up?" Ethan closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "Harper, just bear it for a little bit." "Once Chloe recovers, once I've repaid the life I owe her, we can go back to how we were." He stepped to the door, opened it, and threw one last sentence over his shoulder. "The kitchen has the shrimp ready. Walk down there yourself." The door slammed shut. I sat on a wooden stool in the cold kitchen all night long. Ten pounds of cooked shrimp piled into a massive stainless steel bowl like a mountain. I used my bandaged fingers to strip the shells. My fingernails tore from the beds. Sharp shell spikes jabbed into raw, bleeding flesh. Blood seeped into the pale shrimp meat. I had to pause, using a toothpick to dig out the stained portions, toss them in the trash, and move on to the next. By dawn, the bowl was finally filled with clean meat. From the second-floor master bedroom, Chloe's voice drifted down. "Ethan, this shrimp is delicious." Ethan's voice was gentle: "If you like it, eat more. From now on, I'll have her peel it for you every day." I sat on the freezing tile floor of the kitchen. All ten of my fingers were swollen like sausages, incapable of even bending. Listening to their laughter upstairs, the sheer absurdity of it struck me as laughable. Years ago, if I got a paper cut while cooking, Ethan would hold my finger and fuss over it for an hour. Now, he could watch my hands bleed without flinching, demanding ten pounds of shrimp for another woman. When a man’s heart changes, there really is no rhyme or reason to it. The next morning, Ethan took Chloe to a luxury hot spring resort outside the city. I saw it on Chloe's Instagram. A photo of their fingers intertwined against a backdrop of pristine white snow. The caption read: "Year seven, and I still love you best." I stared at the screen for a full minute, feeling nothing at all. I slipped off the wedding band from my ring finger, opened the desk drawer, and threw it into the deepest compartment. Then I walked out the back door into the garden. In the corner of the yard sat a small vegetable patch that Ethan had personally cleared for me years ago. Back then, when he heard my dad loved growing tomatoes and herbs, he hired a landscaper the next morning to tear up the sod, telling me I could plant whatever made me happy. A lot of green things used to grow there. Now it was barren, choked with weeds. I fetched a shovel from the shed, walked into the plot, and dug down, heave by heave. I turned the soil completely over, severing the roots and weeds down to the marrow. Then I hauled over two heavy bags of rock salt, sliced them open, and scattered thick handfuls across every inch of dirt. By the time Ethan slammed the garden gate open and rushed in, the plot was covered in a grim, snowy white crust. The back of his left hand was wrapped in gauze. I knew he had scraped it the night before helping Chloe by the pool. "Harper, are you insane? What are you doing?" I plunged the shovel deep into the mud and dusted the soil from my hands. "The salt scorched the earth. Nothing will ever grow here again." Ethan stared at the bleached, salted dirt. His lips moved, but not a single sound came out.Harper’s POV That evening, an exclusive private gala was held on the outskirts of town. Before leaving, the car stopped outside a high-end salon to pick up Chloe. Chloe, dressed in an extravagant ballgown, opened the door but stayed standing on the curb, glancing toward the back seat. "Ethan, my skirt is way too voluminous. Two people can't squeeze in the back; it'll crush the silk." Ethan turned to me, looking conflicted. Without a word, I opened the front passenger door and slid inside. The venue was an unmarked private estate, hosting the most influential elite in New York. Chloe held Ethan’s arm as they walked inside, instantly drawing a cluster of sycophants. "Chloe, Mr. Vance spoils you so much. To get you a membership spot here, he came down personally to pull strings." "Seriously. This club only releases a few slots a year. People wave blank checks and still get turned away." Chloe’s eyes curved into crescent moons as she glanced sideways at me. "Ethan promised that as long as I ask, he’ll get me anything." Someone nearby looked at my plain, outdated dress and scoffed under her breath. "Dressing like that to an event like this? Wonder what she thinks she's doing here." I turned my head and met the woman’s gaze. "Clothes can be changed when they get old. But when a person is dirty on the inside, no amount of silk will ever wash it clean." The woman choked, her face flushing crimson, not daring to push further. What Chloe wanted tonight was a coveted membership card to this premier business circle. The slots were controlled by the venue's owner, Victor Chambers. Halfway through the evening, Ethan stepped away to talk with Chambers in private. Using an excuse to visit the powder room, I followed, stopping near the turn of the corridor. Through the cracked door, Chambers' oily voice floated out. "I can grant the slot. But I'm currently lacking an eye-catching plus-one for an upcoming trip. Let Mrs. Vance accompany me, and the membership card is yours on a silver platter." Ethan fell silent for a long moment. "Mr. Chambers, name another price. I'll pay double." Chambers let out a dry chuckle. "You think I need your money, Vance? I'm just looking for a bit of spice. A fiery woman like your wife... that’s what makes things interesting." Ethan stayed quiet again for what felt like an eternity. "...I understand." Standing outside the door, my fingertips turned ice-cold. By the time I returned to the table, Ethan was already back in his seat. In front of the entire table, he poured a full glass of straight whiskey and pressed it into my hand. He leaned in, his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "Harper, just have this one drink with Mr. Chambers. Just this once. I promise it’s the last time." Victor Chambers raised his glass, watching me with a smug, knowing smirk. I looked at Ethan. Ethan looked away. "Mr. Chambers, I drink this, and your word holds." I raised the glass, tilted my head back, and drained the burning liquor in one swallow. Setting the empty glass down, I caught the vicious little smile tugging at the corner of Chloe's lips. I walked out the front doors. Just as I rounded the corner outside, the world spun wildly into blackness. The drink had been spiked. I tried to scream for help, but no sound escaped my throat. My knees buckled beneath me. Ethan caught my collapsing frame from behind, lifting me into his arms, whispering brokenly against my ear: "I'm sorry, Harper. This is the last time. Never again."