The Ex Code

(Keziah)

At twenty-six, I had perfected the delicate art of looking effortlessly in control while actually running a life that most people only imagined in glossy magazines. My publishing house, Davis & Co., wasn’t just surviving—it was thriving, unapologetically bold, and making waves across the industry. I wasn’t just a CEO; I was the CEO, the kind of woman who made competitors check their spreadsheets twice and interns whisper my name like I was a legend.

Pulling out of my driveway, my Porsche Purismo gleamed under the morning sun. Sleek, black, and practically daring anyone to cut me off, it was my favorite part of leaving the mansion. The driveway, marble and expansive, reflected the kind of life I had built: polished, controlled, untouchable. I slid into the driver’s seat, adjusted my sunglasses, and tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with my favorite playlist. The city stretched before me like a playground of possibilities.

By the time I arrived at the publishing house, my mind was already half in meetings and half in daydreams about my latest manuscript acquisitions. The building itself was a modern architectural marvel: glass walls, minimalist interiors, and open spaces that encouraged collaboration without chaos. My team greeted me like I was royalty. Some of them probably whispered behind my back about my “soft life,” which I found endlessly amusing. Soft life, indeed. If by soft you meant orchestrating six-figure deals, curating a world-class team, and running a company that was the envy of the industry, then yes, soft life.

“Good morning, Keziah,” said Mara, my executive assistant, handing me a perfectly organized stack of contracts. “We have three manuscript approvals pending, and—”

“I know,” I interrupted, flashing my signature grin. “And I approve. Now go make me a coffee before you ruin your impeccable judgment with caffeine withdrawal.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Always dramatic.”

“And always correct,” I shot back, sliding into my office chair like a queen settling into her throne. My office overlooked the city, sunlight pouring in across shelves lined with leather-bound tomes, rare first editions, and art I could never fully explain in words. It was beautiful, it was mine, and it was exactly how I liked it—controlled chaos, curated to perfection.

As I skimmed emails and signed off on last-minute approvals, my mind wandered briefly to something—or someone—I wasn’t supposed to think about. Ethan Cole. Or rather, the memories he carried, like a persistent echo in my chest. Nineteen-year-old me had been naive, hopeful, and entirely too foolish. I had laughed too loudly, trusted too easily, and allowed a boy who hadn’t fully believed in himself to break something fragile inside me.

I shook my head and laughed softly. That girl was gone. She had been replaced by Keziah Davis: woman of influence, woman of choice, woman who didn’t chase ghosts—even if they liked to haunt her penthouse occasionally.

“Miss Davis,” Mara said, snapping me back to the present. “Your first author call is ready, and they’re expecting you in the boardroom.”

I grabbed my espresso—perfectly brewed, naturally—and made my way through the sleek corridors. Staff smiled and nodded, a subtle mix of respect and amusement in their eyes. I waved, threw in a witty comment to someone passing by: “Remember, you’re not allowed to make a mistake today. I said so. My wrath is legendary.”

They laughed, probably silently cursing me behind my back, but I didn’t care. Power was as much about presence as it was about decisions.

In the boardroom, I leaned against the polished mahogany table and listened as my authors pitched ideas, their excitement practically buzzing in the air. I offered feedback with precise, careful wit, sprinkling in encouragement, occasional sarcasm, and the kind of charm that made people feel simultaneously reassured and mildly terrified.

By the time I left the office that evening, the sun was dipping behind the city skyline, painting golden streaks across glass and concrete. My Porsche Purismo gleamed again under the last light, ready to whisk me back to my mansion—a palace of calm, luxury, and control. Driving home, I allowed myself a small, satisfied smirk. Soft life, I murmured again, tasting the irony. This wasn’t soft. This was meticulous, deliberate power. This was freedom.

And still, in the quietest corners of my mind, memories lingered. Some ghosts had a way of sneaking past even the most fortified walls. But for now, I had my life, my empire, my laughably perfect espresso. And that was enough.