Page 1 of Client Privilege

Alex

THE FLUORESCENT lights in the public defender’s waiting room buzzed overhead like angry wasps trapped in a jar.

I shifted in the moulded plastic chair that had grown more uncomfortable with each passing minute of the hour-plus I’d been sitting here.

My borrowed jeans—thrift store finds that hung loose around my waist—scratched against my thighs whenever I moved.

I wrapped my arms around my body, trying to stop my shoulders from curling inward.

The receptionist behind the scratched Plexiglas partition kept glancing at me.

I couldn’t tell if it was concern or suspicion in her eyes.

Either way, I hated being seen like this—dishevelled, hollow-eyed, clearly someone whose life had fallen apart.

My gaze darted to the exit sign, its red glow promising escape.

Three more people had come and gone since I’d arrived.

Maybe this was pointless. What could a public defender even do against Marcus and his team of expensive attorneys?

I’d already tried going to the police, and that had been worse than useless.

The memory of the officer’s skeptical expression flashed through my mind. “So you’re saying your… boyfriend… hurt you? And you want to press charges now, weeks later, with no evidence? ”

I closed my eyes, tears burning behind them.

Buster’s face appeared in my mind—his soft ragdoll features, the gentle way he’d press his head against my chin when I cried.

My chest ached with missing him. Was Marcus feeding him properly?

Did he even care about Buster beyond using him as one more way to hurt me?

Someone slammed a door down the hall. The sharp crack made me jolt upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The fluorescent light directly above me flickered, buzzing louder, then dimming.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

Just like—

The hospital room ceiling, stark white, swimming in and out of focus as I blinked up at it. A machine beeped somewhere to my left. Bzzt. Bzzt. The fluorescent light overhead flickered rhythmically.

“You’re awake.” A nurse appeared, her face professionally neutral. “How are you feeling?”

I couldn’t answer. My lip was split, swollen to twice its normal size. Pain radiated from everywhere at once—ribs, back, jaw, between my legs.

How had I gotten here?

The memory rushed back like a wave of ice water.

Marcus standing in the doorway of his—our—apartment, holding my sketchbook. His face blank in that way that always meant danger.

“What is this?” His voice had been eerily calm as he turned the book around to show me—drawings of the city from angles that weren’t from our windows.

“Just some sketches.” I’d kept my voice soft, placating. “From the park near the gallery.”

“You went without telling me.” Not a question.

I’d swallowed hard. “It was just for an hour. You were in meetings all day and—”

“Do you have any idea,” he’d said, slowly closing the sketchbook, “how humiliating it was to hear from David Rothman that he’d seen you sitting alone on a park bench? Like some vagrant? Drawing pictures like a child?”

“I’m sorry.” The reflexive response. “I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t.” He’d placed the sketchbook carefully on the side table. Too carefully. “You never do think, do you, Alex?”

I’d backed up a step. “Marcus, please. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

His smile had been terrifying in its gentleness. “No, it won’t.”

The first blow had caught me off guard—a backhand that sent me sprawling into the coffee table. The cut glass edge had sliced into my arm.

“You make me do these things,” he’d said, unbuckling his belt. “Why do you always make me do these things?”

I’d tried to crawl away, but he’d grabbed me by the hair, dragging me back.

“Where do you think you’re going? You need to learn discipline, Alex.”

What followed was a blur of pain and terror.

His weight pinning me down. The sound of my clothes tearing.

My pleas turning to whimpers, then to silent tears as he forced himself on me, his breath hot against my neck, whispering how ungrateful I was, how lucky to have him when no one else would want such damaged goods.

I’d stopped fighting at some point. My body had gone limp, my mind floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching what was happening to the person below as if through thick glass.

When he’d finished, he’d stood up, straightened his clothes, and looked down at me with disgust.

“Clean yourself up. You’re pathetic.”

I must have passed out after he’d left. The next truly clear memory: the hospital ceiling, the buzzing light.

“Sir?” The nurse again. “Can you tell me what happened to you?”

I’d tried to speak, but my throat closed around the words.

“Was it a mugging?” she’d prompted gently. “Or… did someone you know do this to you? ”

Her eyes had held knowledge. She’d seen injuries like mine before. Knew what they meant.

Still, I couldn’t speak. Marcus had friends everywhere—doctors, police officers, judges. Who would believe me over him?

“I fell,” I’d finally whispered through broken lips.

The nurse’s eyes had filled with resignation. “I see.”

Another nurse had appeared in the doorway. “Is he awake? His partner’s here—very concerned. Says he’s been missing for hours.”

The first nurse had given me a long look. “Do you want to see him?”

The terror must have shown on my face because she’d nodded slightly.

“Tell him the patient is sedated and can’t have visitors until morning,” she’d told her colleague quietly. Then, turning back to me: “You have until morning to decide what you want to do.”

I’d closed my eyes, tears leaking from the corners.

In short order, I’d scraped together enough courage to slip out of the hospital. No discharge papers, no follow-up appointment. Just bare feet on cold tile as I’d escaped in hospital scrubs, clutching a paper bag with my ruined clothes.

With no phone, no wallet, and nowhere to go, I’d done the one thing I never thought I would—I’d called Professor Claude Mercier from a payphone outside the hospital, using the loose change a sympathetic orderly had slipped me.

My first-year art professor from Montreal, the one who’d seen something in my work when no one else had.

The one who’d recommended me for the gallery internship where I’d met Marcus.

“Alex?” His voice had been thick with sleep but instantly alert. “It’s the middle of the night. Are you alright?”

“Professor Mercier,” I’d whispered, my voice breaking. “I need help. Please.”

That was all it had taken. He’d driven from Montreal to Toronto that same night, found me huddled in a 24-hour diner near the hospital, still in those thin hospital scrubs .

“My God, Alex,” he’d said when he saw me, his face pale with shock. “What happened to you?”

I couldn’t tell him everything. Couldn’t form the words. But he’d understood enough.

“Mr. Lajeunesse?”

I blinked. The waiting room slowly came back into focus. A young woman stood in front of me, clipboard in hand, eyes concerned.

“Mr. Lajeunesse? Are you alright?”

My heart was racing so fast I could barely breathe. Sweat had soaked through my borrowed shirt, and I realized I was gripping the chair’s armrests so tightly my knuckles had gone white.

“I—yes.” My voice sounded strange, distant. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I’m Natalie Wong. I’ll be handling your case today.”

I tried to stand, but my legs were weak, uncooperative. I stumbled, grabbing the chair to steady myself.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Just tired. Been sleeping in my car.”

Her eyes softened with understanding rather than pity. “Let’s get you some water and find somewhere more comfortable to talk.”

I followed her down a narrow hallway, hyper-aware of how close she walked, how the overhead lights cast sudden shadows that made me flinch. My skin felt too tight, like it didn’t belong to me anymore.

“Have you eaten today?” she asked as she held open a door to a small conference room.

I couldn’t remember. Had I? There’d been a granola bar somewhere in the glove compartment of the ancient Honda I’d bought. I might have eaten it. Or maybe that was yesterday.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

She placed a bottle of water in front of me. “I have some protein bars in my desk. Let me grab one for you.”

Before I could protest, she’d stepped out. I took a shaky breath and tried to focus on the room. No windows. One door. Neutral beige walls. A watercolour print of a seascape that had faded to pastel ghosts against paper.

The water bottle was cool against my palms. I tried to unscrew the cap, but my hands were trembling too badly. I set it down, shame burning through me.

I couldn’t even open a water bottle. How was I supposed to stand against Marcus? Against the empire he’d built on charm and money and carefully constructed lies?

The door opened again, and I startled so violently I nearly fell out of the chair.

“Sorry,” Natalie said, approaching slowly, like I was a wounded animal. She placed a protein bar on the table. “Let me open that for you.”

She twisted the cap off the water bottle with a single smooth motion and pushed it toward me.

I took a deep breath. “I tried going to the police already. They didn’t believe me.”

She nodded, sitting across from me. “That happens more often than it should. But that’s why I’m here.”

I took a sip of water, letting it cool my raw throat. “He has my cat,” I whispered. “Buster. He won’t give him back. Uses him to try to make me come home.”

The words hung in the air between us. Home. It had never been home. Just a beautiful prison with expensive furniture and calculated cruelty.

Natalie’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes hardened. “Mr. Lajeunesse—Alex, if I may—I need you to know that what happened to you wasn’t your fault.”