3. Leslie The Pressure Mounts
Leslie: The Pressure Mounts
I should’ve gone home hours ago.
Yet here I am, hunched over my laptop, rewriting the same damn press statement for the third—no, fourth—time.
The scandal just keeps getting worse. Every time I think we have it under control, something new pops up.
Earlier this evening, a picture of Theo surrounded by half-naked women on the yacht leaked, a video of him laughing as he pours champagne over some model’s chest, an eyewitness claims he was bragging about ditching a boring charity gig for a real party.
Now, social media is ripping him apart. Parents are furious. Comment sections are filled with words like selfish, shameless, fake philanthropist. And the worst part? The kids who waited hours for him at that event were left heartbroken.
Theo Bennett is a walking PR disaster. And unfortunately, he’s my problem to fix.
I sigh, rubbing my temples. The office is quiet now, the usual noise of ringing phones and chatter is long gone. All that’s left is the hum of my laptop and the distant sound of the cleaning crew’s vacuum.
I take a peek at the clock on my phone. Almost nine.
I could call it a night, go home, and try to clear my head. But that just means waking up to an even bigger mess in the morning. And right now, I’m barely keeping my head above water.
So, I push through the exhaustion, straighten my shoulders, and keep going.
***
After an hour of tweaking and rewriting, I finally have something.
It’s not perfect, but it’s solid—sharp, strategic, and, most importantly, it makes Theo look like he’s worth saving.
I save the file, shut my laptop, and stretch. My whole body aches from sitting hunched over for hours. What I really need is sleep. A hot shower. Maybe a glass of wine big enough to drown in.
But first—Kyle. If I’m still here, there’s a good chance he is too. If I stare at this statement any longer, I might lose my mind. I need his sign-off.
I grab my laptop and head for his office.
***
The door is open when I get there. The lights are still on.
Kyle is exactly where I expected him to be—behind his desk, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, focused on something on his screen.
I knock lightly on the doorframe and lean against it.
His eyes flick up, and for a split second, something unreadable crosses his face. Then it’s gone, replaced by the usual cool, collected expression he wears like armor.
Kyle leans back in his chair, his sharp gaze settling on me. “You’re still here.”
I meet his eyes, not missing a beat. “You are too.”
He doesn’t react, just nods toward the laptop in my arms. “I assume you’re here for something more important than small talk.”
I walk in and set my laptop on his desk. “I’ve got a new strategy.”
He gives a slight nod, but his gaze lingers.
I open the file and push the laptop toward him. “This statement goes out first thing in the morning. It shifts the focus away from the scandal and back to Theo’s career. A ‘let’s move forward’ approach. Instead of reacting, we take control of the conversation.”
Kyle doesn’t respond right away. He just reads, his eyes scanning the screen. The longer the silence stretches, the tighter my patience wears.
Finally, he exhales and closes the laptop. “This isn’t it.”
I blink. “Why?”
“It’s not strong enough.”
I straighten. “It’s strategic.”
“It’s weak.”
I shake my head. “It’s calculated. If we push too hard, it’ll blow up in our faces.”
Kyle leans back, crossing his arms. “Leslie, this sounds like we’re begging people to move on instead of making them want to.”
I take a sharp breath. “That’s the goal. We don’t need to fight—we just need to redirect their attention.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “No. We need to set the narrative. Right now, we’re playing defense when we should be leading the charge.”
Frustration bubbles up, my fingers curling into a fist. “And how exactly do you suggest we do that? Go after the media? Dismiss the backlash?”
Kyle’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m suggesting we take control. Make them second-guess every headline. Every tweet. Every so-called fact that’s been thrown around.”
I let out a slow breath, frustration creeping into my tone. “That’s risky.”
“It’s necessary.”
I shake my head. “No, what’s necessary is making sure Theo comes out of this without destroying what’s left of his reputation.”
Kyle watches me carefully. “And you think this will do that?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
Kyle studies me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he pushes the laptop back toward me.
“No.”
I freeze. “What?”
“You can make it better.” His tone is calm, but firm. “This is not the statement we’re releasing.”
I stare at him, irritation bubbling up. “I’ve spent hours on this.”
“Then spend a few more.”
Heat rushes through me, not from embarrassment but from sheer frustration. “Sir—”
“Go home, Leslie.” His tone sharpens. “Sleep on it. You’ll figure it out.”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t need to sleep on it. I know this works.”
He exhales, rubbing his temple like he’s growing just as impatient as I am. “Then why are you still arguing with me instead of proving me wrong?”
I clamp my jaw shut.
Kyle watches me for another beat, then gestures toward the door. “Go home. Come back with something better.”
I inhale deeply, then grab my laptop with a little more force than necessary. “Fine.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Goodnight, Leslie.”
I don’t bother replying.
Instead, I turn on my heel and walk out, jaw tight and my pulse racing.
He wants better?
Fine.
I’ll give him better.
***
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as my conversation with Kyle replays over and over in my head.
His voice. His criticism. His unwavering demand for something better.
My frustration boils to the surface again, and I turn over, burying my face in my pillow.
He’s just so impossible and stubborn. Who does he think he is? Just because he’s the CEO doesn’t mean he knows everything.
My approach was solid. It was strategic, thought-out. If he can’t see that, then that’s on him, not me.
I clench my fists, my jaw tightening. He wants a different angle? Fine. But I’m not going to doubt my instincts just because he thinks he knows better.
I groan as I toss my blanket off and sit up. My head is a mess of thoughts, and my body is restless.
I need to figure this out. I need to prove him wrong.
My laptop sits on my desk across the room, tempting me to open it. I should keep working to find the angle that’ll prove him wrong. But my eyes burn from exhaustion, and I’m too drained to think straight. I lean my head back against the headboard and close my eyes, my mind still racing.
My mind drifts, and the events replay like a broken record in my head. Theo on the yacht. The scandal. The pictures . . . the pictures.
My eyes snap open.
The pictures. The videos. The clips. They came out of nowhere, one after the other. Almost too quickly, like it was planned.
And Theo . . . he swore up and down that half of it wasn’t true. That most of the images were fake or even taken out of context.
At first, I didn’t believe him. But now . . .
I swing my legs over the bed, rushing to my desk and flipping open my laptop. My fingers move fast, searching through the images again. I study them, zooming in and checking the details.
Something feels off, but I can’t really put my finger on it, so I lean back and start biting on my lip.
What if Theo’s telling the truth? What if some of these images are fabricated?
If that’s true, then there’s a way to prove it. I'd need to find traces left behind by whoever uploaded them. But I’m no tech wizard. I’d need someone who knows their way around digital forensics. Someone who can dig deep.
I grab my phone and dial Mia.
It rings twice before she picks up, her voice groggy. “Leslie? It’s past midnight.”
“I know, and I’m sorry for calling so late. But this is important.” I don’t wait for her to respond. “Those images of Theo. Do we have anyone at SMG who can trace them? Someone who can look into the metadata?”
There’s a pause before she answers, her voice sharpening. “You’re thinking they might be fake?”
“It’s possible. And if they are, we can flip this entire scandal on its head.”
Mia is quiet for a moment, then she exhales. “Amanda Cross. She’s our tech specialist. If anyone can track down the source, it’s her.”
A spark of hope ignites in me. “Alright. Can you set up a meeting?”
“Of course. I’ll reach out first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks, Mia. I appreciate it.”
She lets out a tired laugh. “Just doing my job. Goodnight, Leslie.”
I hang up, my heart racing. This could be it. This could be the break we need.
But first, I need Amanda.
***
The next morning, I’m at the office as early as possible.
I barely slept, my mind was too busy connecting the dots, and now adrenaline fuels my actions.
I quickly drop my things in my office and then head straight for the tech department. Mia had already texted me the location.
I pass rows of cubicles before spotting the nameplate on a door, Amanda Cross tucked away in a room in the back of the office, surrounded by monitors. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screens.
I clear my throat and knock. “Amanda Cross?”
She looks at me immediately, eyes sharp behind black-rimmed glasses. Her expression is impatient, clearly not a fan of interruptions. “Yeah?”
“I’m Leslie Hart. Mia said you could help me.”
Her face softens at Mia’s name, and she leans back, her curiosity piqued. “Mia sent you? That’s rare. She doesn’t usually bother me unless it’s serious.” Her gaze sweeps over me, evaluating. “Alright. What do you need?”
I get straight to the point. “Theo Bennett’s scandal. Those images are flooding the internet . . . I need to know if they’re fake. I mean, if someone is out to get him, I need proof.”
She arches an eyebrow, her interest clearly growing. “You want me to trace the metadata?”
“Yes. If they’re fabricated, I need to know who’s behind it.”
Her lips curve into a small grin. “You’ve come to the right place.” She spins back to her screens, fingers already moving. “Send me everything you have.”
I forward the files, watching as she pulls them up. Her eyes narrow as she begins her analysis, murmuring under her breath. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. These are good.”
My stomach tightens. “So, they’re fake?”
She doesn’t look away from the screen. “Maybe. Maybe not. I won’t know for sure until I dig deeper. This isn’t amateur work.” She glances at me, her expression serious. “Give me a few hours.”
I nod as relief floods through me. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
She shrugs, her attention already shifting back to the images. “Just doing my job.” But then she pauses, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she studies my face more closely. Her eyes narrow.
“You look familiar.” Her tone shifts. “Did you . . . did you ever intern at Pinnacle Management?”
My heart skips a beat. “Yeah. A few years ago.”
Her eyes flash with recognition, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “Thought so. I knew your face looked familiar.” She holds my gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in her eyes before she turns back to her screens. “I’ll be in touch.”
There’s a slight edge to her voice now, a coolness that wasn’t there before. I can’t tell if it’s just curiosity or something more, but the shift in her demeanor makes me uneasy.
As I walk away, I shake off the feeling. Maybe she just remembered something about my time at Pinnacle. Or maybe she’s just the type who enjoys keeping people on edge. Either way, I have bigger things to worry about.
As I head back to my desk, my phone buzzes. I pull it out, my stomach dropping as I read the message from an unknown number.
Watch your back.
I stop, my fingers tightening around the phone. I spin around, half-expecting to catch someone watching me, but the office is busy, people going about their morning routines. Everything looks normal. But the uneasy feeling lingers.
I immediately save the number as unknown and shove my phone back into my bag. I can’t afford to let this throw me off. Not now.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. Whoever it is, they won’t scare me off. I’m getting to the bottom of this scandal, one way or another.
I step into the elevator, my shoulders tense and my senses on high alert, but as the doors start to close, I catch a glimpse of movement. I look up, and my heart skips a beat.
Kyle.
He’s standing at his office window, his eyes fixed on me, his expression unreadable. Was he watching me the whole time?
The doors close, cutting off my view, but the image of him standing there lingers, sending a shiver down my spine.
I lean against the elevator wall, my heart pounding. What the hell was that about?