Editing Love
Chapter 01
He removed his glasses, pressed a finger against the bridge of his sharp nose, then leveled an unreadable gaze at her.
“I’m sorry, Sir. I can revise it again,” Priska answered, her voice trembling, her eyes swimming with tears.
It was yet another rejected article—she had lost count of how many. Since morning, nothing she submitted had pleased Revaldo Aditya, the formidable Editor-in-Chief of Hindia Insight. Not one of her pieces had earned his approval. Priska couldn’t understand what he wanted. She was new, still learning, still adjusting. Wasn’t that enough reason for him to give her some grace?
The office of the Editor-in-Chief was an intimidating place. Aldo—is Chinese, brilliant, and admired—was a familiar face on television during high-profile events. The nation recognized his intellect, his ability, his almost untouchable aura. Rumor had it he was the youngest son of a construction magnate, yet he had no interest in joining the family empire.
With two older brothers dutifully following their father’s footsteps, Aldo had chosen a world of his own. Despite the privilege he came from, he was known as a hardworking, capable journalist. Still, what fascinated people most was not his background, but his private life. Single, never seen with a woman—he was an enigma everyone longed to solve.
“I honestly wonder how you even graduated. You can’t manage a simple article about a book event? You’d be better off writing a diary at home, Pris.” He slid his glasses back on with finality.
His words pierced her like a blade. Nearly a year into the job, and she was still treated like a clueless intern. At thirty-two, Aldo was infamous for his temper. If something failed to meet his standards, no one—no matter who they were—escaped his wrath.
“In that case, if you’ll excuse me.”
Priska lowered her head, asking permission to leave. Aldo waved her off dismissively, already absorbed in his computer screen. Cold. Unyielding. Outside, she kept her eyes down, unwilling to meet the pitying glances of her colleagues. She hurried down the corridor toward the restroom. Bisma, the magazine’s young photographer, fell into step behind her, concern written across his face. At twenty-six, he was always quick to notice when something was wrong.
“Did he yell at you again?” he asked softly, following her.
Priska shook her head without slowing, one hand clamped over her mouth to keep the sobs at bay. She had always been tenderhearted, too easily moved to tears, too fragile for raised voices. Even her parents back in Bandung had never scolded her harshly, no matter what mistakes she made.
Bisma’s chest tightened at the sight of her. They were the same age, bound by shared frustrations about work. To him, she was more than a colleague—though she never allowed their friendship to drift beyond that line. A few times, he had invited her out under the pretense of “getting some air,” but she always declined gently, saying she was too tired, too in need of rest.
“Bis, you should go back. If Mr. Aldo sees you, he’ll get angry,” Priska murmured.
“I’m almost done editing the photos, just a little left. I’m more worried about you. You used to work in PR—no one doubts your skills. Maybe Mr. Aldo’s just lashing out because last month’s issue didn’t sell, and the advertisers weren’t happy,” he reasoned.
Priska stopped walking and lifted her eyes to his. The intensity of her gaze made him falter, turning away quickly, unable to withstand the force of the woman he cared for.
Yes, she had work experience elsewhere. But this—journalism—was uncharted territory. She had taken a chance, relying on her degree and courage to land a job at Hindia Insight. Everything still felt so new, so raw.
“I know I can write,” she whispered bitterly, “but I don’t know what he wants. If only he would tell me what I did wrong.”
“Pris.” Bisma’s voice was low, almost breaking. “Please hang in there. I’m always here for you.”
She shook her head softly. She couldn’t allow herself to lean on him, not too much. With a faint smile, she urged him back before the others grew suspicious. Reluctantly, he obeyed, retreating down the hall, while she continued on to the restroom alone, fury simmering beneath her grief.
Public relations and journalism were worlds apart. She locked herself in a stall, sat down, and finally let the tears fall. From the start, Aldo had tormented her. He insisted on training her personally, refusing to let her rely on the editors or the rest of the team.
The publication process was grueling for a newcomer. Drafts passed through many hands before they were ready for print. Writers were expected to explore timely topics, craft them with precision, balance facts and tone. Priska had to learn the basics all over again—when to use a period, a comma, capitalization—always careful not to slip too much of herself into the prose. The writing had to be crisp, objective, uncolored by personal emotion.
Each draft was to be self-edited before going to the editor, though mistakes were inevitable—things that could be refined gradually. Afterward, the editorial team would step in: managing editors, subeditors, proofreaders—each adding polish, ensuring consistency with the magazine’s voice. Sometimes, even after revisions, drafts went back for discussion in editorial meetings, aligning the piece with the publication’s vision. Only then did the article return to the editor’s desk for final approval.
But Aldo—the devil of Hindia Insigh—ignored all that. He demanded to see her drafts first, every time. And so, every day, she endured his unyielding critique, his relentless perfectionism. Priska pulled a tissue from the dispenser and dabbed at her ruined makeup. Ten in the morning, and she was already a wreck. Her chest heaved with anger.
“He could’ve said it more kindly… or at least told me where I went wrong. The punctuation was right, the terms were correct—I read it five times before handing it in. He doesn’t have a heart,” she muttered, bitter tears slipping down her cheeks.