Seducing the Ice-Cold CEO

Chapter 16

Leah

Still, I swallowed the bile of my frustration, rolled my shoulders back, and got to work. I trimmed the piece down, tightened the structure, and softened the tone in a few key places though I hated every second of it. I didn’t want to make Dante sound more likable if the truth was that he had a sharp, arrogant edge. But fine, I could play the game.

Once finished, I attached the revised article and hit send again. The pride I’d felt earlier when glowing from Arya’s praise and Burke’s lack of revision was completely gone now, replaced by a gnawing irritation that refused to let me be. Even as I turned back to proofreading May’s article, my eyes kept flicking back to the inbox on my screen, waiting for what Dante’s team would say next.

The reply came just as I finished the last paragraph of May’s piece. I didn’t even hesitate as Iset aside May’s article, and clicked the email open immediately, my heart thudding with anticipation.

My article was rejected, again. This time, I actually let out a choked, disbelieving laugh. I rubbed my temples, exhaling through my nose as I read the message for the third time. The new reasons were just as ridiculous. The structure was “still too rigid,” and they apparently felt the opening paragraph didn’t “reflect Mr. Kerlsen's Intended image.”

I wanted to throw my mouse at the wall. Were they deliberately trying to piss me off? Because if this was their strategy, they were succeeding spectacularly.

Gritting my teeth, I revised the article again, forcing myself to make it cleaner and simpler. I watered it down so much it barely resembled the version I had originally written. It was bland now, and as soulless as something Esther would churn out. But I sent it back anyway, my fingers flying with mechanical precision.

And when that third rejection came in, barely fifteen minutes later, I didn’t even blink. I was done.

I copied the phone number listed in the signature of the email and pulled out my phone. My hand trembled slightly as I typed it in, not from fear but from how tightly I was gripping the device.

It rang twice before a woman picked up.

“Hello, this is Madison Hughes, editorial office for Kerlsen Holdings. How can I help you?” Her tone was polite but brisk and I could tell from the background noise that she was in the middle of typing something.

“This is Leah Sparrow,” I said, my tone clipped. “I’m the journalist who conducted the interview with Mr. Kerlsen. I’ve been in correspondence with your team about the piece. You've rejected it three times now.”

There was a pause. “Oh… right,” she said, slowly. “Yes, I believe I saw that come through.”

“Good,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. “Because I need to understand something. I’ve made every revision requested, line by line, and still, it keeps coming back with new complaints. What exactly do you want from this article, because if I recall correctly, your side didn’t have this many problems with it the first time around.”

Madison sighed. “Look, Leah, I understand your frustration. I do. And I’m really sorry for all the back and forth, but…” Her voice dropped a little, like she was about to share a secret. “These edits? They’re not coming from us, not really.”

I sat up straighter. “Then who are they coming from?”

There was a long pause. “Mr. Kerlsen,” she said eventually. “He’s been personally reviewing the drafts.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

“He usually doesn’t bother with press this much, but…” She hesitated. “This one’s different, I guess. He has really high standards. He keeps changing his mind about how he wants to come across. Honestly, it’s been difficult on our end too.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “So I’m not the only one he’s driving up a wall.”

“Definitely not,” Madison said, her voice suddenly a little more sympathetic.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling for a second. “Okay, then I need to talk to him directly.”

“Mr. Kerlsen doesn’t usually take media calls directly,” she said automatically.

“I don’t care what he usually does,” I said, trying to stay calm. “This has gone on long enough. If he’s the one making the edits, then I need to speak with him directly.”

There was a beat of silence before Madison sighed again, long and weary. “Give me a second. Get a pen.”

I was already scrambling through my drawer, grabbing a sticky note and a pen so hard the cap flew across my desk.

“Okay,” I said.

She rattled off the number and I jotted it down quickly before reading it back to her so she could confirm the digits. “Thank you,” I said tightly.

“Good luck,” she replied tiredly. “You’ll need it.” The line went dead.

Ha! Dante would be the one needing it, when I got to the bottom of this sudden switch in his attitude. All through the rest of the morning, I kept myself on a tight leash, pretending like I wasn’t seething inside. I even managed to sit through a budget meeting without snapping my pen in half. But the moment the clock struck noon, I grabbed my phone and slipped into the empty stairwell with the number Madison had given me burning a hole in my pocket.

I tried calling it, once. Twice. Three times. Each time, the result was the same damn thing, his robotic voicemail smugly instructing me to leave a message and “have a productive day.” Productive my ass.

I didn’t leave a voicemail. I wasn’t about to be one more voice buried in a sea of ignored messages. Instead, I stared down at the phone in my hand like it had betrayed me. My foot tapped violently against the concrete floor, echoing in the stairwell. I sucked in a breath and tried to tell myself to calm down, that this wasn’t personal.

But it was. He was personally rejecting my work, after all, oersonally driving me insane with vague edits and shifting goalposts. And now, he couldn’t even pick up the damn phone?

I stomped back up the stairs, barely acknowledging anyone as I walked past reception. By the time I reached my desk, I was vibrating with suppressed fury. I sat down and tried to get back to work but my mind wouldn’t cooperate. I stared blankly at a headline I was supposed to be editing and couldn’t even process what the words meant.

And then the most brilliant, most insane idea I’d had all week hit me. If he wasn’t going to come to me, then I was going to go to him. Dante Kerlsen was not escaping me today, even if I had to sit outside his door like an obsessed groupie.

I felt the adrenaline course through me the moment I made the decision. It didn’t even feel impulsive. It felt right. I stood up and grabbed my bag, muttering something about “taking my lunch outside” to May, who was too busy reading an email to question it. Outside, I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address I still had from when Hensley had first sent it to me.