The CEO's Little Stripteaser

“My mother got flowers today—the loveliest she’s ever received. Too bad she won’t get to see them this time. She would’ve smiled at them, set them on the lounge table, and admired them as a reminder that she was loved.”

The speech I gave was lovely—at least, that’s what everyone else thought. But I knew the truth. Every word felt like a mockery. My stomach churned as I stared at the closed casket, my eyes burning with contempt. How could she have been so foolish? So blind?

“I placed them beside her casket because that’s where she would’ve wanted them. Open and bold for everyone to see, so she could have a reason to love him,” I said, letting the venom drip from the word “him.” The congregation nodded in that hollow, pitying way people do when they don’t really understand. Not one of them knew what I truly felt.

Ever since my mother met Mark four years ago, I was the only one who knew the truth about what happened behind the walls of our house. To everyone else, Mark was the perfect husband, and my mother’s constant smile painted a picture of marital bliss. But I saw the cracks no one else did.

It took just six months after their wedding for Mark to show his true colours. I’ll never forget the first time he hit her. I was terrified—so terrified I called the police, thinking I’d saved her life.

I was wrong.

She dismissed the accusations, waved them off like they were nothing, and then turned on me. “It’s not your business,” she’d said, her voice cold, as if I’d betrayed her.

That was the moment I knew. This marriage wasn’t the fairytale she deserved after losing my dad. My dad—he would’ve been heartbroken to see what her life had become.

And the worst part? It didn’t stop there.

Mark always had a way of worming his way back into her good graces. His charming smile, his endless money, his smooth, conniving tongue. Every time they had one of their “disagreements,” he’d come back with flowers, jewels, or diamonds. She loved the flowers most. She always said she was a florist at heart.

But to me, they were nothing more than scented symbols of pain. Each bouquet was an apology—an empty gesture meant to cover whatever crime he’d committed the night before. And she forgave him. Every. Single. Time.

I begged her to leave him. I pleaded, I cried, I yelled. But she never listened. Not until it was too late.

I found the flowers on the porch this morning, just hours before the funeral. The house was eerily quiet without her screams, without the sound of shattering glass, without Mark’s presence. He’d vanished.

The note was simple: ‘I really did love your mother, Abigail. I wish you could see that.’

I’d flung it into the fireplace and watched it burn, tempted to toss the flowers in after it. But I couldn’t. She would’ve kept them. She would’ve cared for them until they withered away, just like her love for me had. Just like her life had.

I carried the flowers to the church, and now here they were, resting beside her casket. I forced a bitter smile as I spoke into the mic.

“Nice, aren’t they?” My hollow chuckle echoed in the silent room, and all eyes flickered to the roses. “She would’ve loved them. They were her hope, after all, for a happy life one day.” I wanted to add that the day never came, but I held my tongue. There was no point in tarnishing her image in front of all these people.

Let the dead be the dead. There was nothing I could do now.

I’d tried to save her. More times than I could count, I reported Mark to the police. But nobody helped. Nobody looked. Nobody cared. And now, it was too late.

For my own peace of mind, I’d reported it one last time. I told them Mark had killed her. But his lawyer swooped in with medical reports and a silver tongue, blaming her “failing heart.” The saddest part? He wasn’t even lying.

“My mother got flowers today. And I hope she keeps smiling at them, as if they were her redemption. Surely, there isn’t a force in this world stronger than love,” I finished softly, my heart twisting with every word.

I didn’t believe it. Not one bit. I said it for them—for the crowd of strangers who thought they knew her, and for my aunt, who had begged me to share a few words. I did it out of respect for the woman I once knew. The mother I lost four years ago.

There’s no such thing as love in this world. There’s greed, lust, submission, and fleeting pleasure.

Maybe, in some perfect place, there are people who know love—people who feel it. But not me. Not anymore. Love died for me when my dad did.

I set the mic back in its holder and walked off the pulpit without sparing her casket another glance. My heels clicked against the tiled church floor as I made my way to the back of the room, my gaze fixed straight ahead. I didn’t care about the stares—whether they were sympathetic, judgmental, or curious. Let them look. I wasn’t here for them.

I sat alone in the last row, listening to more lies about how “open-minded” and “loving” my mother was. It didn’t matter anymore. Bitterness wouldn’t change anything now.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of forced smiles, hollow condolences, and meaningless farewells. By evening, I was walking down the street with a single suitcase trailing behind me. I didn’t look back.

Mark had sent a ton load of money—probably out of guilt or pity. I burned the cheque. I didn’t want his dirty charity, just like I didn’t want anything of my mother’s to remind me of the nightmare I’d lived.

With nothing but the clothes I’d bought myself, a few personal belongings, and my newly earned degree in Marketing, I flagged down a bus. Somewhere far from this town, I’d start over. Maybe in the city. Maybe somewhere I could finally breathe.

I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew one thing: I was going to write my own story.

Mark was a monster, no doubt about it. But my mother? She didn’t care. She chose her abusive husband over her only child, over her own life.

Let them bury her. Let her rot in that box.

At least she got to take her precious flowers with her.

“From the top again, Jerry. Tell me the issue.” I pinched the bridge of my nose as a familiar ache began to settle in—the unwelcome herald of an impending headache.

Jerry, my COO and oldest friend, stood rigid, gripping the report I’d already refused to take. His hesitation told me all I needed to know: this wasn’t good.

“I just finished processing the reports from the Italian winery,” he began, his tone cautious. “Apparently, the reason production has slowed is that 2,000 acres of the vineyard are infected with Grapevine Trunk Disease.” He glanced at the document again, as though hoping it might offer a better answer.

The words hit hard. In the wine industry, few things were more catastrophic. My jaw tightened. “For how long?”

Jerry swallowed, his gaze dropping to the paper despite already knowing the answer. “Uh—six months, sir.” The rare formality in his tone was a clear sign he expected me to blow up.

And he was right. My palms slammed onto the desk, the sound echoing through the office. Jerry flinched. “Six f**king months? And no one thought to inform me?”

Sam, the Italian branch manager, was in for it. I’d made my expectations clear from the start: any issue that could threaten the business had to be reported immediately. This wasn’t optional. In a world where communication was instant, there was no excuse for sitting on critical information until it appeared in a quarterly report.

The success of Vintage Wines depended on communication. With vineyards and wineries scattered across the globe, I couldn’t personally oversee every operation. My managers were the backbone of this business, entrusted with upholding the standards I’d set. Over the past eight years, that trust had paid off as we transformed the family company into an international powerhouse.

I leaned back, exhaling slowly to steady my rising anger. From the moment I’d taken over the business, I knew California couldn’t be our only base. Sure, the Californian vineyard was the heart of Vintage Wines—our largest and most successful operation. It had history, prestige, and sentimental value. But I wanted more.

Expanding the business into Italy, Spain, Australia, and Brazil wasn’t just ambition; it was necessity. I’d gambled everything on that vision, pouring my entire trust fund into acquisitions and expansions.

My father had offered nothing more than a perfunctory “good luck,” and the employees had viewed me as a twenty-something kid with no idea how to run a legacy.

I proved them wrong. Slowly, I rebuilt the team, earning respect and loyalty through hard work and results. Every vineyard we acquired cemented our reputation, and by the time we finalized our operations in Brazil, Vintage Wines was a name to be reckoned with.

But now, this. Half of the Italian vineyard—2,000 acres—infected. If Sam had done his job and alerted me immediately, this could have been handled. But no. His pride had gotten in the way, as it always did. Sam was good at his job, but his ego? That was another matter.

Now, his ego was jeopardizing everything.

Here’s the revised section with improved flow, clarity, and subtle enhancements for showing rather than telling, while staying concise:

The only reason I kept Sam around was that he knew how to do his job.

Or at least, I’d thought so. Lately, I was starting to have second thoughts about that assumption.

With a deep sigh and the weight of a long day on my shoulders, I shut my laptop and rose from my chair. It was far too late to be dealing with this. “Tell you what, Jerry. Tomorrow, I’ll have my assistant arrange a flight to Italy. For now, I think it’s time to go home.”

Jerry nodded in agreement, visibly relieved. Outside, the bustling streets of New York had long since quieted, leaving only the soft hum of the city in the background. The clock on the wall ticked steadily toward midnight, filling the silence in my office as I gathered my belongings.

Late nights like these weren’t common, but they weren’t unusual either. It was during nights like this that I’d signed contracts for new vineyards and finalized deals that shaped Vintage Wines into what it was today. I didn’t mind them—they came with the territory.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Jerry said, heading for the door.

“Goodnight,” I replied, giving the office one last glance to ensure everything was in order. I made my way down the empty, dimly lit hallway and stepped into the elevator. As I waited for it to descend from the fifteenth floor to the ground, I checked my phone for messages.

A text from Jessica, my sister, caught my attention. Her wedding date was set. I couldn’t help but smile. Jessica deserved happiness, and I was genuinely thrilled for her.

Growing up, I’d witnessed the kind of love my parents shared—it was genuine, deep, and real. I believed in it because I’d seen it firsthand. For me, though, love was a distant memory. I thought I’d found it five years ago, but it turned out my secretary had been more interested in a raise than me—and she’d been secretly dating my computer engineer all along.

I wasn’t heartbroken, just embarrassed. Successful men like me didn’t find true love after making it big. By then, most women saw me as nothing more than a walking bank account.

Sure, I dated occasionally, and I’d recently “settled down” with someone I could marry when the time came to have a child. But it wasn’t love. It was practical, mutually beneficial.

Jessica, on the other hand, had found someone worthy. She deserved it after years of heartbreak, much of it from men who were either gold diggers or players. At 27, she’d endured more than her fair share of disappointment. I sent her a quick congratulatory reply just as the elevator doors opened.

The lobby was nearly silent, the overnight lights casting a faint glow over the marble floors. I’d called my driver twenty minutes earlier, and as expected, he was already waiting outside.

“Good evening, Chris. Sorry to keep you out so late,” I said as he opened the door for me.

“No problem, sir. Straight home, I presume?”

“Indeed.” Fatigue gnawed at me as I slid into the car, the familiar leather seat a small comfort.

Chris chuckled lightly and started the twenty-minute drive to my penthouse. I leaned back, closing my eyes and willing the throbbing in my head to subside. It didn’t. But as the car’s quiet hum lulled me, I found myself drifting off anyway.

The sound of Chris’s voice jolted me awake. “What the hell…” His tone was sharp, and I felt the car slow.

Rubbing my eyes, I glanced out the window. The streets were eerily empty, except for a man running at full speed. He looked to be in his forties, his face twisted with rage. But what caught my attention was the young woman several feet ahead of him. She clutched a pair of heels in her hands, sprinting barefoot down the sidewalk.

Her quick glance over her shoulder told me everything—the man was chasing her.

“Help!” she screamed, her voice raw with desperation. Something tugged at my chest as I leaned forward, gripping the edge of Chris’s seat.

“Chris, stop!” I didn’t even need to say it. He was already pulling over as the woman approached.

“Get in!” I shouted. She didn’t hesitate. She dove into the back seat, her breaths coming in sharp, panicked gasps.

“I’ll get you, bitch!” the man yelled, his words slurred and venomous. Chris sped off before he could come any closer.

I turned to the woman, who was staring out the rear windshield, her trembling hands gripping the seat. The man’s figure grew smaller and smaller as we put distance between us.

Her whole body shook. It could’ve been the cold—it was November, and her skimpy outfit did little to shield her from the chill. But I knew better. I’d seen fear before, and it was written all over her.

She was terrified.

Once the man was out of sight, she slumped against the seat, her breathing still uneven but less frantic. Her shoulders sagged as though the weight of the chase had finally lifted.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Her head lolled toward me, her eyelids drooping.

She murmured something unintelligible before her body went limp. Sleep—or something more troubling—claimed her entirely.

I leaned back, my mind racing. Who was she? And what the hell had just happened?