CEO Face Slapping Short Stories & Novels

I could see floating live-chat comments from the future. And that little trick saved me from dozens of cheating scumbags. But today, my adoptive parents gave me an ultimatum. I had to pick a fiancé, or else… The family’s real daughter, Wendy Wellington, who was recently found and welcomed back with open arms, clutched my hands. Tears welled in her eyes as she pointed to a man in a wheelchair. The man, Harry Peterson, wore a faded undershirt and a tattered blanket over his knees. Word on the street was that he had gone bankrupt, owing over a hundred million dollars. "Sister, my health is too fragile for a hard life," Wendy sniffled while trying to hide her smirk. "What would people say if the real heiress was seen riding a public bus? “You’re so much stronger than me. Do this one for the sake of the family." She glanced over at a guy leaning against a blood-red Ferrari nearby. "I’ll handle the billionaire’s son," she added quickly. "You shouldn't be blinded by money to make a mistake." I looked at Harry in the wheelchair. Floating right above his head was a wall of glowing comments. “LOL! She’s dumping the city’s richest hidden billionaire for a guy who’s going to prison next week?” “He’s only playing broke and disabled to catch his rivals off guard. Once he clears his name next month, his net worth is going to skyrocket!” I squeezed my sister’s hands tight and a sweet smile spread across my face. "Since you've put so much thought into my future, I would hate to disappoint you," I said. "I'll take the guy in the wheelchair.”

For Children's Day, I help source and purchase gifts for my son's class. I not only keep the budget to a minimum, but I also manage to get expensive toys that are way over budget for them. During checkout, because my son, Harry Chandler, has grabbed a limited edition toy robot, the PTA representative, Darren Larson, shouts at me, "Jordan Chandler, are you trying to tell me that you didn't embezzle the class funds for that 500-dollar toy robot?" The class teacher, Kevin Brown, and the manager of the toy store, Florence Young, immediately pause in their footsteps. I feel dozens of pairs of eyes staring at me in the mall. Darren complains animatedly, "You were trying to pay for that 500-dollar toy with the class funds, basically using everyone's money to spoil your son, weren't you? "Both Mr. Brown and the manager are right here, but you still dare to pocket our money? I can't imagine how much of the class funds you must've used to line your own pockets behind our backs! I daresay, for someone with no morals like you, the children you raise will be thieves in the future too!" Darren glares maliciously at me, looking me up and down. Even Kevin is giving me a look of suspicion and disdain. Instead of arguing with him, I turn to the cashier and ask in a calm tone, "My family owns this mall. Do I need to pay for a toy I just grabbed off the shelf?"

I'm the only daughter of the Genovese family in New York. To test my husband Jayden Henderson's competence, my Dad had me stage a surprise inspection at the company he runs. The moment I walked in, some bleach-blonde in a tight dress was staring at the shredder like she'd just discovered fire. "Oh my God, this thing is so cool. Can it literally shred anything?" She said that as she grabbed a contract off someone's desk and started feeding it in. A coworker dove across three desks to stop her: "Hazel, no! That's a million-dollar account!" "Oopsie! My bad!" She giggled, then her hand holding the cup gave a little tremor, and the whole drink splashed right onto the power switch. Sparks flew. The lights died. Twenty computers crashed simultaneously. The entire office sat in stunned, furious silence. I grabbed the nearest intern and asked who hired her. He whispered back in terror: "That's Mrs. Henderson—the CEO's wife. Word is she actually owns this company." Mr. Henderson? I speed-dialed Dad right there: "Dad, forget the inspection. Get the divorce papers ready. Jayden and I have a bone to pick."

My fiancé spent three years fighting in underground boxing matches to scrape together enough money for me to study abroad. He didn't know that I'd been secretly working as a photography assistant the entire time. Every month, I sent my entire paycheck back home, hoping to ease his burden, even just a little. "Mr. Everett flew all the way to France to take bridal portraits with his wife. The main gown alone costs twenty-five million dollars!" "What a dream husband!" I waited outside the fitting room, listening to my colleagues gush over the day's VIP client. "Nathan, thank you for protecting me. For sending the Ashfords' real daughter away." "Good girl. From now on, you're the Ashfords' true daughter." That familiar voice stopped me cold. I couldn't move. The next second, a notification popped up on my phone from the contact pinned at the very top: "Got the money you sent, babe! More than I make in a whole week of fights!" "Once you're back, we'll have saved enough to get married!" I stared at the contact name, "Hubby Nathan," and nearly laughed at the irony. "Don't bother. I'm getting married right here in France!"

The three heirs of the Whitman family all claimed to love me. But their way of loving me was to keep me hidden. Alexander said New York's financial reporters were too aggressive and that making our relationship public would only put me in the middle of a media frenzy. Nicholas said people in the investment world were vicious gossips and he was afraid I'd become a target, so he never brought me to his partners' gatherings, private clubs, or holiday receptions. Leon said his music career wasn't established yet. Once he had a stage that was truly his own, he would acknowledge me in front of the whole world. I waited four years. This changed when Lillian Grant walked into their lives. Alexander walked her down the red carpet at the Manhattan Art Foundation gala. The next day, every entertainment outlet ran the same headline: "Eldest Whitman Heir Appears to Go Public with New Romance." Nicholas brought her to an investor reception, where his partners called her "the future Mrs. Whitman" right to my face. Leon was the most direct. He played a song at a twenty-thousand-person concert and told the livestream camera, "For the most important person in my life." The jumbotron cut to Lillian's seat. The day after the livestream. Alexander set a folder on the coffee table. "You're twenty-five now. We think it's time you had a life of your own." Nicholas continued, "This man comes from an ordinary background, but he has a stable job. He's been divorced once and has no children. " Leon slid the photo in front of me, smiling with the same easy warmth as always. "We've already met him for you. He's more than a good match." I didn't argue. I just picked up my phone and called the Whitman family attorney. What they didn't know was that the family trust Grandfather had established before his death made one thing perfectly clear. Whoever I chose would receive that twenty-seven percent block of voting shares and become the true power behind the Whitman family.

For an entire year, I'd been in an online relationship with a guy named Gravano. We were deep in the honeymoon phase—every night, his messages would light up my phone like clockwork, sending my pulse racing and my cheeks burning. [Thinking about you, baby.] [Had another dream about you last night. You were on top of me, begging for more.] [Promise me we'll never be apart. Okay?] I was about to suggest we finally meet in person. Then he sent me a picture—and the man in it was my boss. The most notorious playboy in the entire city. I decided to break it off, convinced he'd been playing me for a fool. But just days after I sent Gravano my breakup text, a man who looked exactly like my boss cornered me against the wall and asked, his voice low and dangerous— "Didn't we promise each other... forever?"

I lied to my husband, Tony Mercer, about working overtime and spent a month moonlighting at an upscale club. My coworkers were itching to land a sugar daddy or a rich cougar. All I wanted was to save up enough to buy him a nicer watch. He was in sales. A designer watch could spare him plenty of condescending looks and snide remarks. Scrimping on meals, working two jobs, I'd lost a lot of weight. My best friend Clara teased me for being lovesick. She didn't understand. How happy it made me to build a life side by side with the man I loved, working hard together. That evening, I carried a fruit platter to the door of a VIP suite and heard a familiar voice. "Tony, did you sign a prenup with Bianca?" "Obviously not. Otherwise how's he supposed to keep up the broke-guy act?" "So when you two divorce, Cinderella walks away with half your fortune? How generous of you!" I heard Tony scoff. "Generous? There's no legal marriage between us. How exactly would we divorce?" A thunderclap split through my skull. Every drop of blood in my body froze solid, and an icy chill shot through me from head to toe. Only one thought echoed in my mind. Tony, what kind of joke is this?

Someone @'d me on the hotel's internal guest service system. "Hey, penthouse guy. You're alone. What do you need a whole infinity pool for? My wife's hosting a livestream event. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow." "Don't worry, we'll give you three grand a month. It's a sweet deal. You should be thrilled." I stared at the screen. This was a joke. I was Don Alessandro Ricci. The ruler of Chicago's entire underworld. I checked into my family's flagship hotel under the radar to keep a low profile—needed some peace to close a critical overseas deal and take a few days off. That pool was the penthouse's exclusive amenity. The crown jewel of this hotel. And now someone thought they could take it for three grand? I shot back two words: "Dream on." I didn't expect the hotel manager and two security guards at my suite door the next day. Someone had filed a complaint about me "misusing hotel public resources." And now, for the sake of "guest harmony," they were demanding my keycard. Fine. You want to bring it on yourself? I'll play.

When I'm dragged onto the auction stage, my ex-boyfriend, Clifford Mitchell, is sitting among the audience. He has his arm around Selene Graham, the woman who framed my father and sent him to prison back then. He leisurely raises his paddle. "A hundred million dollars. I want her to strip naked in public and play that video from back then." The compromising photos he coaxed me into taking when I was 18 instantly appear on the massive screen, and the whole venue bursts into laughter. I bite down hard on my lip and, with trembling hands, slowly undo my buttons to cover the cost of my son Brooke Sullivan's surgery tomorrow. Just then, Brooke bursts in. His head's covered in blood as he throws his arms around Clifford's leg. "You big bully! Don't hurt my mommy! You can have my kidney, so please save my mommy!" Staring at the face that is practically identical to his own, Clifford loses his composure for the very first time. "Kyra, this child—" I slap him hard across the face, a bitter smile on my lips. "Don't you think I'm filthy, Mr. Mitchell? He's just a bastard child. I wouldn't want to sully your precious eyes."

To catch the attention of spoiled heiress Natasha Sturridge, my brother, Samuel Beckford, destroys her 800,000-dollar emerald pendant during a charity gala and trashes a shrine dedicated to her ancestors. Natasha doesn't say a single word and immediately calls the police. However, Samuel assumes Natasha is just playing hard to get. Not only does he crash her wedding, but he also publicly claims she is pregnant with his child. Later, he is beaten within an inch of his life by her bodyguards. Mom and Dad simply stand on the sidelines and watch Samuel ruin his life, despite loving their children more than anything else in the world. It is because both my parents and I have been given a second chance at life.

On her wedding day, my adopted daughter, Sophie Bennett, runs off after transferring the 300-thousand-dollar down payment her fiance, Ethan Carter, has saved for their new home. A few days earlier, while sorting through her old belongings, she discovers her adoption papers. After reading too many stories about domineering billionaires and runaway heirs, she is convinced that she is the long-lost biological daughter of a billionaire. Determined to reclaim her place among the elite and marry a powerful man, she steals the down payment and spreads lies online, accusing her adoptive parents of imprisoning and abusing her. It isn't until my biological daughter appears before me that I realize the "powerful man in the country" she has eloped with is only the beginning of this whole mess.

On the day I reunite with my ex-boyfriend, Zachary Carter, I'm in my electrician's uniform, arguing with a client. "I'm not leaving until you pay me, you pervert! You asked for an attractive woman to come over to your house, and now you're refusing to pay? Let's see what will happen when your wife gets home!" I yell. The door slams shut with a loud bang, and several bills are thrown onto the floor. As I crouch down to pick up the money, Zachary stands before me holding the keys to his Porsche. "You'd rather scam people and risk getting beaten to death than come back to me to ask for help?" he asked. Behind me, the client is still screaming at me. "You're crazy! I paid for an attractive woman to come over—not for an attractive woman to come over and fix my wiring!"

Five years ago, at our engagement party, I broke my fiancee's assistant Richard Greer's nose with a punch because I saw his hand slip under my fiancee Pearl Moran's skirt, groping her right out in the open. Yet when security arrived, Pearl stepped in front of Richard and frowned at me. "Alex, he was just messing around. Did you really have to hit him that hard?" To get back at me for Richard, she pulled strings to throw me in prison. My first day behind bars, I ended up in a cell Richard prepped for me. My ribs were broken in a beating. I was fed spoiled leftovers and forced to sleep on the cold concrete floor. The moment I got out, I boarded a flight to Eldermere without looking back. Five years later, I return to Sovrane with my wife, Catherine Carter, to take over her family's Bellmont division. She gets held up with an arms order and tells her local crew to pick me up. I never expect to run into Pearl, whom I haven't seen in five years, the moment I step out of the airport. A black sedan pulls up in front of me, and the window rolls down. She looks at me like nothing ever happened. "You've been gone long enough. Time to drop the grudge. Richard's driver just retired. Since you're back, you can take over."

After Alfie Lawson, the young heir of an elite family, is dumped by his sweet, innocent girlfriend, he develops selective mutism. His mother announces that whoever can get her son to speak will be rewarded with 100,000 dollars. I push my way through all the women trying to coax him out of his shell. "Hey, remember how you were calling me 'Mommy' in bed last night?" "I did not!" Alfie blurts out. Immediately, his mother wires 100,000 dollars to my account. I'm elated. From then on, I follow him around every day, teasing him and collecting my money. I rake in a fortune without even lifting a finger. Alfie won't speak, and he can't exactly hit me either. So whenever I push him too far, he resorts to shutting me up with his lips. Overnight, I go from being his study companion to his girlfriend. Every time I make a dirty joke, he makes sure I regret it by punishing me in bed until I'm too scared to say another word. Then, just before our wedding, Alfie's innocent old flame, Wendy Brown, returns after getting a taste of the real world. That night, he never comes home. I take the remaining half-box of condoms and the savings I've scraped together over the past decade, then drag my suitcase out of our marital home. I deliver the condoms to them. As for the savings, I use them to buy myself a ticket back home.

Right before the wedding, my fiancé asked to postpone it by seven days. All because he wanted to spend time with his childhood sweetheart, who was terminally ill. "This week I am completely free. I want to be with Lily and help her fulfill her last wish." I asked, somewhat taken aback: "Tomorrow is our wedding. Are you trying to humiliate me?" Alexander's eyes darted away, but his tone was firm. "Lily has only a month left to live. I owe her a love story worth remembering." I didn't agree, but Alexander left anyway. The wedding was postponed at the last minute. [Joanna, we won't cross the line. I will give you a grand wedding.] Every day after that, Alexander sent me updates on his itinerary. On the first day, they took my wedding photographer and went to shoot their own wedding photos. On the second day, he gave the custom wedding jewelry to Lily. But by the third day, Lily sent over a video. Alexander was drunk, and they were pressed close together. Lily stared into the camera, her eyes full of defiance. "So what if he finds out I was faking my illness? He still chose me over you — just to fulfill my wish." I laughed. The only reason he succeeded was because of my unique business acumen and instincts. And now, sixty percent of the company's shares are registered under my name. Once he loses me, everything he has will turn to dust.

On Christmas Eve, with the temperature at thirteen below zero, a blizzard shut down the interstate in northern New Jersey. The motel at North Ridge Travel Plaza had only two heated rooms left. My hands and feet were numb with cold, but I still walked happily toward Daniel Walker, my husband of five years, a man known for his thoughtfulness. Instead, he walked right past me and handed the last two room keys to his first love Claire Miller, who had just ended her marriage, and her dog Buddy. A woman stranded beside us watched enviously. "Your boyfriend is so thoughtful. He even got a separate room for the dog." Daniel didn't correct her or look back at me. He was too busy taking off his down jacket and draping it over Claire's shoulders. "Eileen is an adult. She can take care of herself. You have depression. You can't take any more cold." He seemed gentle and reliable, but what he truly loved was the feeling of rescuing someone vulnerable. The more helpless a person appeared, the more he gave them, even when I paid the price. Claire eased closer to him. She apologized to me, but her eyes stayed on the room keys. "Sorry, Eileen. Buddy is too skittish to stay with strangers." I didn't remind Daniel, point by point as I used to, that he had forgotten which of us was his wife. I didn't demand that he explain why a dog needed heat more than I did. I only tightened my grip on my car keys and stepped back into the storm. All his easy, considerate devotion went to Claire. All the humiliating, bone-deep cold went to me. But Daniel didn't know that the four-wheel-drive SUV he planned to use to chase me belonged to me. Before I left the apartment, I would take my ID and keys, and I would make sure the SUV stopped somewhere he could no longer follow. And the blizzard was only beginning.

My fiance, Adrian Hale, and I had planned to go snorkeling on Valentine's Day. The day we landed in the south of France, I discovered that his first love, Vivian Clarke, had come with us. They insisted on heading into unpatrolled waters. "But those waters are dangerous, shrouded in strange rumors..." Adrian frowned at me. "Sophie, do you have to ruin the mood right now?" Vivian smiled and hooked her arm through his. "With you here, nothing is going to happen to us." Once we were in the water, Vivian recklessly swam toward the deeper channel. A swell shoved half her body into a narrow opening. I swam over to pull her free, but she thrashed and drove her heel hard into my knee. Her elbow knocked my mask crooked. Before I could straighten it, Vivian kicked me into the opening. Adrian came up behind us, grabbed Vivian, and held her hand tight. The voices over my underwater headset were muffled, but I still heard Adrian's cold warning clearly. "Vivi doesn't know these waters. You do, don't you? "You led her into deeper water on purpose. Who exactly were you trying to hurt? "Figure your own way out. Consider it the lesson you've earned!" Briny seawater flooded my throat. My aching legs kicked uselessly. My body was wedged fast in the opening. I closed my eyes in despair. My last thought was this: if I died, they deserved to pay with their lives.

I had waited a month for Ascendant Group's college recruitment offer. When it finally arrived, Yvie Smith walked over arm in arm with another man while she smiled at me. "Carl, you should let Kevin take that offer instead." As I turned to her, everyone around me was holding back their laughter, waiting for me to cave and agree, like I had always done. It had been ten years. I would give her anything whenever she asked, from competition qualification spots and postgraduate recommendations to ten grand worth of hard-earned money… She was used to it, and I had since made peace with it. And now, she was looking at me loftily, speaking as if she were giving alms. "It's the same thing every time. How is it different now?" I looked at her haughty leer and suddenly laughed. "Who the hell are you to make decisions for me?"

Right before Memorial Day weekend, I finally land a rush order from an overseas client, but they insist on delivery on the first day after the holiday. The factory has been sitting idle for two weeks, and the profit from this single order is enough to keep the entire company running for the next six months. I immediately post a notice in the company group chat. "Anyone willing to work over the holiday weekend gets paid five times their base rate, but it's completely voluntary." Nobody takes the offer. Instead, the new intern, Howard Chase, screenshots my message and posts it online. "Heartless boss treats us like machines and forces us to give up Memorial Day weekend." To make matters worse, a few veteran workers chime in with skepticism. "I've never seen anyone actually get paid five times the base rate. I'll believe it when I see it." That very night, the post goes viral, and the onslaught of online criticism forces me to turn off my phone. What's even more absurd is that Howard secretly creates another group chat to rally the workers and pressure me into increasing the pay even more. The next day, I hold a meeting and lay out the cost sheet right in front of everyone. "Paying you five times your base rate already eats up 80% of the profit from this order. The rest has to cover our rent for the second half of the year. I'm not keeping a single dime for myself." I figure laying all my cards on the table like this will make them understand. But Howard immediately goes back to the group chat and stirs everyone up. "Don't back down, everyone! He can definitely pay more. Hold the line until he gives us ten times the base rate!" That's when I lose faith in them completely. I spend the whole night thinking it over, and by morning I know exactly what to do. At the meeting the next day, I announce with a smile, "Management accepts everyone's criticism and will make major changes. Everyone gets the entire Memorial Day weekend off. Not a single day of overtime." Everyone freezes. Someone quietly asks what I am going to do about the order. "I outsourced it. At five times the normal rate, plenty of people are happy to jump at the chance," I reply. By that afternoon, the outsourcing contract is signed, and the client has signed off on the arrangement. Once that sinks in, every single worker starts to panic.

On the seventh Christmas of our marriage, my husband, Alan Seaton, who worked in France, finally agreed to let me visit him. That was when I learned he wasn't renting some basement apartment at all. He had bought a spacious three-bedroom apartment. His mother, Maria Seaton, had the primary bedroom. He slept in the second, and the third had been turned into a pink princess room for his mother's goddaughter, Daisy. Even Daisy's dog had a climate-controlled kennel on the balcony. When he caught me staring at the kennel, Alan laughed and patted Daisy on the head. "You treat that dog better than your own mother. You insisted he couldn't suffer, so you even had radiant floor heating installed for him." I stared at the border collie eating imported beef in his kennel, and something inside me broke. For a moment, I had no idea what to say to Alan. Should I tell him that I had worked three jobs to fund his business overseas and that when I had a fever, I could only afford expired acetaminophen? Or that I had lived on sandwiches until a bleeding ulcer made me pass out in my rented room? Before I could decide, Alan pulled me over to the dining table. "You haven't worked in Texas in years anyway. Why don't you sell your house there and move here to take care of my mom? You can look after Daisy's dog too." He had no idea I had sold that house in Texas years ago to clean up the mess he had left behind. Nor did he know that I was the real owner of the multinational company he worked for.