Mad Love

Chapter 1

Welcome Home, Mr. James

August

New York

The first lie I tell today is, “I’m doing great, Mom.”

The second?

“I’ll try to make time to come that way.”

“My son,” she says, voice all silk and side-eye, “how long are you gracing our fair city with your presence this time?”

Translation: You’ve been ghosting your mother for five years and I’m still letting you slide—barely.

I shift on the edge of the hotel bed, one hand on my tablet, the other gripping the back of my neck like that’s gonna stop the guilt from crawling up it.

“Quick trip. All business.”

“Ay, Auggie.” She sighs—dragging out the name like it’s a leash she’s reeling me back in with. Her fake Spanglish is awful, bless her heart.

“Your mother misses you, you know.”

That lands. Soft, but loaded.

Of course I miss her. But this city? The man she married. The minefield of memories waiting around every corner? That I don’t miss.

“Always,” I say, voice low. “You know that.”

“Then don’t make it complicated. Have dinner with me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. She makes it sound so damn simple. Like we’re still in the Heights eating toast with butter because we couldn’t afford takeout. Back before she slipped her pearls back on and forgot what struggle tasted like.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Maybe?” she snaps. “Augustus Mateo Valdez-James. I did not raise you to be a maybe.”

She just full named me. For a white woman she sure does have a lot of Dominican attitude. Incredible combo. Horrifying when you’re on the receiving end.

“Alright, alright. I’ll try.”

Pause.

“Lo prometo, Mamá.”

She always perks up when I say that—even if she doesn’t know what it means exactly.

It was Abuela who taught me to speak with carino.

My mother just… lets me be soft with her.

“Te extrano,” I add, quieter. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t speak Spanish. She knows when I mean it.

“I miss you too, sweetheart,” she says, voice gentler now. “Just don’t forget where you came from.”

“Nunca,” I say, almost to myself. I already did once. And that’s why coming back feels like failure, no matter how much I’m winning. “Te amo.”

“I love you too, Auggie.”

I hang up and just sit there for a second, the silence swelling in the room.

It’s funny. The older I get, the more I realize how many versions of “I love you” I’ve learned to say—and dodge.

I smooth down my tie. Inhale. Exhale.

Let the guilt sit. Then bury it.

I hang up and stare at the screen for a beat, then toss the phone beside my tablet.

A soft thud on Egyptian cotton. A king-sized bed dressed in charcoal linens. The suite smells like lemon polish and ambition.

Corporate money has a scent.

Like sterilized marble and imported leather. Like “sir, would you like sparkling or still?” before you even speak.

My custom suit jackets draped over the back of a velvet armchair, the monogrammed initials peeking from the inside pocket. The charcoal wool is sharp enough to cut, tailored on a recent trip to London, where the tailor knew my measurements before I walked in.

That’s not flex. That’s access.

And I’ve earned every damn thread.

I rub my palm across my jaw, feeling the familiar rasp of stubble I haven’t had time to shave. I keep it neat. Something about that edge reminds me I’m still hustling. Still not soft.

Sadie’s ping hits my tablet screen—calendar alert in her signature no-nonsense tone. UrbanMint Innovations: 9:15 sharp. Crane Industries follow-up: TBD.

Also, call your mother back. She forgot to remind you to wear the navy tie.

I smirk.

Sadie’s never once pretended she works for me. She works with me. More accurately? Around me. Through me. Over me when necessary.

She's the only person in the world who can threaten my calendar and my mother in the same breath.

I swipe the alert away and glance at my watch—Rolex. Clean. Silver with a black dial. No diamonds, no flash. Just power in its purest form: time.

“Echo,” I say toward my tablet, voice still rough with sleep.

“Pull the UrbanMint brief. Highlight anything flagged since last night.”

The AI assistant chirps to life, already processing.

I walk over to the dresser, where the navy tie sits rolled like a sleeping snake beside my cufflinks. Of course, Sadie was right.

As I knot it, I glance at the full-length mirror.

Still got it. A little tired, maybe, but sharp. My mother says I look like my father when I’m exhausted—eyes heavy, jaw locked, body running on spite and caffeine.

Dominican grit. Irish defiance. That blood runs deep.

The tablet hums softly in the background as I loop the tie, smooth the lapels of my suit jacket, and slide my phone into my inner pocket. My fingers brush over the embossed lining—my initials stitched into silk. Everything I own has a system. A rhythm. And today’s beat is already playing.

Buzz.

Another ping. Sadie again.

“Your driver’s downstairs. You’ve got 12 minutes to get your ass to the curb.”

No greeting. No emoji. Just Sadie being Sadie.

I grab my bag and head out of the suite. The hallway smells like bergamot and old money. I pass closed doors, each one whispering the secrets of people trying to look important.

The elevator dings softly and glides open like it's been expecting me.

By the time I reach the street, the black Audi Q7 is already idling curbside, a sleek shadow against the concrete. The city’s buzzing around me—horns, chatter, steam rising from subway grates. But the second that back door swings open, it’s silence.

Sanctuary.

“Mr. James,” Dennis says with a grin, eyes meeting mine in the rearview. “Good morning.”

I slide in, the leather seat hugging my body like it missed me.

The A/C’s crisp. The music’s low—some jazz instrumental humming beneath it all.

“Dennis, my man,” I say, pulling out one earbud. “How’s life?”

He nods, already merging into traffic like he owns it. “Can’t complain. Kids are good. Sheila said to tell you hi. Left something for you, too.”

My eyes land on the wicker basket beside me, neatly wrapped in linen and twine. The aroma hits instantly—cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla.

Muffins. Still warm.

I grin and shake my head. “Tell her she’s a saint.”

“You tell her. She watches your interviews like she’s got stock in you.”

I chuckle, peeling back the cloth. A dozen muffins, each one golden and still steaming. Next to it, a to-go coffee cup with my name in Sharpie and a note taped to the lid:

Don’t forget to eat. XO – S

I take a bite—blueberry, cardamom, and something I can’t place but want more of. That’s Sheila. She cooks like she loves you and wants you to know it.

“We’re tight on time,” Dennis says, glancing at the dash. “But I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“You always do.” I sip my coffee. Perfect temp. No cream, no sugar—just the way I like it.

The city blurs past as I scroll through my tablet, notifications flooding in from three time zones. Between the Crane deal, UrbanMint, and our liquor launch next quarter, this week’s stacked.

But I’m built for this.

Emails pile in before I can finish the muffin.

Two hundred and six unread.

I skim past the usual suspects—Harrison Enterprises, Alison Drake, Lumen Labs—then pause when I see it.

Kelley.

Subject: Crane Deal—Update.

That familiar tingle climbs up the back of my neck. The one that shows up when something in the water’s off.

I open it.

“Got us the meeting. Don’t worry, I didn’t sell my soul. Yet.”

That’s code for: I sold something else instead.

I groan, tossing the muffin wrapper into the passenger seat beside me.

“Echo,” I say to my AI, “call Kelley.”

Four rings.

“’Ello?” His voice is gravel and morning breath.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. You care to explain how you landed us a Crane meeting when I’ve been chasing them for six weeks?”

I hear rustling—sheets, probably. Maybe a woman giggling. Classic.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles.

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You meant it.”

“Kelley.”

“I took their senior PM to dinner. Wine, laughs, complimented her earrings. She liked me. Boom—meeting.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“Relax, Aug. Just dinner. Light flirting. I'm not you.”

I roll my eyes.

“You know this company just let go of their entire PR team and we’re trying to land the whole account, right? Maybe don’t get us sued for sexual misconduct before the first pitch.”

“You're so dramatic. This is why they call me and not you.”

“Nobody calls you. You slide into DMs and pretend it's strategy.”

“Semantics,” he says breezily.

God, I love him and hate him in equal measure.

We’ve been through it all—college brawls, late-night pitches, two failed companies before James Wilde Media. He’s the dreamer. The Firestarter. The chaos to my calculus.

“Look,” he adds, voice suddenly serious. “You’ve been carrying the company while I’ve been doing PR and that liquor rollout. I owed you this one.”

I exhale. That hits.

It’s rare when Kelley gets earnest. Rarer still when he admits I’ve been doing the heavy lifting.

“Fine,” I say. “We’ll see how it goes. But if this turns into another Brindle & Cain fiasco—”

“—that was one time.”

“It was three.”

“One and a half.”

“You can’t round down lawsuits.”

He laughs, deep and unbothered. Then there’s a low moan in the background.

Of course.

“Kelley…” I groan.

“She’s a fan,” he says casually. “I can’t help that I’m beloved.”

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“My dick doesn’t know what time it is.”

That’s my cue.

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, wait—one last thing. Mallory came into the office yesterday.”

My hand freezes over my tablet.

Mallory never drops by unannounced.

“What did she want?”

“Something about the employee handbook and the new dress code updates. She said if we don’t address it, she’s bringing in consultants.”

“Shit,” I mutter. I can already hear the HR storm brewing.

“You want me to handle it?” he asks, like he means it.

I pause. The responsible thing would be to say yes. But Kelley handling HR is like handing a lit match to a toddler in a fireworks shop.