The CEO's Little Stripteaser

Abigail

“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.

Theodore

“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.