Page 10 of Client Privilege

“That’s what abusers do, right?” I said quietly. “Cut you off from everything until they’re all you have left.”

Damian nodded, his expression grim. “It’s a documented pattern. And you’ve provided textbook examples of every stage.”

Damian flipped through his notepad. “In cases like this, we often call on family members as character witnesses. Is there someone—parents, siblings—who knew you before the relationship with Mr. Delaney?”

My fingers twisted around each other in my lap. “There’s no one to call.”

“No one at all?” Damian’s eyebrow raised slightly, his first obvious break in professional composure.

“My dad left when I was seven. Just said he was going to the store.” A bitter smile flickered across my face. “Longest milk run in history, I guess.”

“And your mother?”

“Cancer. Right before I started college.” My gaze fixed on the corner of Damian’s desk. “No siblings. Grandparents never left Poland when my parents immigrated.” I shrugged, the gesture attempting casualness but failing. “It’s just me.”

Damian made a note, his pen pausing momentarily. “That must have been difficult, going through school on your own.”

“Government grants and ramen.” My laugh held no humour. “And then Marcus appeared at my first student showcase.” My voice dropped. “He said my work showed ‘remarkable maturity for someone so young.’ That I had an ‘old soul.’”

Something in Damian’s expression shifted. “He approached you first?”

“Yeah. Offered to introduce me to ‘the right people.’” My fingers made air quotes. “Looking back, I should have seen it. How perfectly he stepped into that… gap.”

“What gap?”

I looked up, meeting Damian’s eyes for the first time. “The one my father left. Older man, successful, interested in me. Telling me I mattered.” My voice cracked slightly. “Pretty textbook, right? Damaged kid looking for daddy’s approval.”

Damian set his pen down. “Alex, victims don’t create their abusers. Predators like Marcus are exceptionally skilled at identifying vulnerabilities. That doesn’t make what happened your fault.”

I smiled sadly. “That’s what my therapist used to say. Before Marcus convinced me I didn’t need therapy anymore.”

He continued organizing the evidence, explaining how each piece strengthened our case. I watched his hands move with practiced efficiency, transforming my nightmare into legal strategy. It was both comforting and surreal—the worst moments of my life reduced to exhibits and affidavits.

The case files lay scattered across the coffee table, the graphic photos of bruises making me look away. Damian gathered them quickly.

“The judge will see these,” Damian said. “You don’t have to keep looking. ”

“Do you know what the worst part was?” I asked suddenly.

“Not the control or even the violence. It was how he’d switch between being this…

this pseudo father figure one minute and something else the next.

” I wrapped my arms around myself. “He’d give me advice about my career, help me with taxes, teach me about wine—all these things my dad should have done. And then he’d…”

My voice faded. Damian waited, giving me space.

“I think I stayed so long because I kept hoping the nurturing part of him was real,” I finally whispered. “That maybe if I was good enough, perfect enough, he’d just be that and nothing else.”

Damian’s face softened. “Children aren’t supposed to earn their parents’ love, Alex. And partners aren’t supposed to be parents.”

“Yeah, well.” I attempted a smile. “I also missed that memo growing up.”

After two hours, Damian closed the last folder. “I think we have everything we need for the initial filing. The protective order is already in place, but this gives us the foundation for the civil suit and potential criminal charges.”

“Will it be enough?” I asked.

“It’s compelling evidence,” he said carefully. “But I won’t lie to you, Alex. Cases like this are difficult, even with extensive documentation. Mr. Delaney has resources and connections that will complicate matters.”

I nodded, unsurprised. Marcus had always made it clear that the rules didn’t apply to men like him.

“Where are you staying tonight? Damian asked, the question seemingly casual as he organized the files.

“I found a place,” I said vaguely.

His eyes flicked up to mine. “A nearby hotel?”

I looked away. “No. Somewhere… more affordable.”

“Alex.” His voice was gentle but firm. “I need to know where to reach you. For case updates.”

“I’ll keep my phone on,” I said, still not meeting his gaze.

Damian studied me for a long moment. “The firm can cover secure accommodation as part of our representation. It’s standard practice in high-risk cases.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted. “I’ve managed this long. I don’t need your help, I’ll take care of myself.”

He didn’t push. “Call if you need anything. Day or night.”

I nodded, gathering my backpack—still the only possession I had besides the clothes on my back. As I left, I felt Damian’s eyes on me, concern radiating from him like heat.

I didn’t tell him I was down to my last sixty dollars, or that the “affordable” place was a motel in a neighbourhood where I’d already been approached by drug dealers twice. I’d lived with Marcus’s control for three years. I wasn’t about to trade one form of dependency for another.

Even if Damian Richards seemed nothing like Marcus at all.

MY PHONE RANG at 9:47 that night. I was huddled on the sagging mattress of the Parkview Motel, sketching furiously in the notebook I’d bought from a nearby Dollarama—the only luxury I’d allowed myself with the remainder of my meagre funds.

Drawing had always been my escape, the one thing Marcus couldn’t completely take from me.

The caller ID showed Damian’s number. I hesitated before answering.

“Hello? ”

“Alex, it’s Damian Richards.” His voice was clear, professional. “I apologize for calling so late, but I wanted to update you on the case filing.”

“That’s okay,” I said, pulling my knees to my chest. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“I’ve completed the paperwork for the civil complaint. We’re seeking $2.4 million in damages for physical assault, emotional distress, and financial exploitation.”

“That seems… high,” I said uncertainly.

“It’s appropriate given the documented injuries and financial losses.” He paused. “How are you doing?”

The question caught me off guard—professional concern sliding into something more personal.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

“And your accommodations?”

I glanced around the dingy room with its water-stained ceiling and mysterious carpet stains. “Adequate.”

“Alex,” he said, his tone softening. “If you’re concerned about costs—”

“I’m managing,” I cut him off.

A brief silence followed. “The firm can provide an advance against anticipated settlement,” he said carefully. “It’s a standard arrangement in cases like yours, where the client has limited resources due to the defendant’s actions.”

Pride warred with practicality. Sixty dollars wouldn’t last long, even at the Parkview Motel.

“I appreciate the offer,” I said finally. “But I’d rather keep things… separate.”

“I understand,” Damian replied, though I suspected he didn’t. How could he? He probably had never had to choose between dinner and a safe place to sleep .

“Is there anything else you need tonight?” he asked.

What I needed was my cat back. My apartment. My life. Things no lawyer could immediately provide.

“No, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow for the hearing?”

“Yes. Ten o’clock. Try to get some rest.”

After we hung up, I stared at the phone. The concern in his voice seemed genuine, not the calculated sympathy Marcus had perfected. But I’d been wrong before. Catastrophically wrong.

Outside, someone shouted, followed by the sound of breaking glass. I moved away from the window, drawing my knees tighter to my chest.

Sixty dollars. Two, maybe three more nights here. Then what?

I turned back to my sketching, losing myself in the only world I could still control.

Damian

I STOOD at my kitchen island, nursing a glass of scotch as I stared at the case files laid out before me. My spacious kitchen, with its marble counter-tops and professional-grade appliances, felt particularly empty that night.

The photographs of Alex’s injuries were arranged in chronological order, showcasing a stark visual timeline of escalating violence.

Three years of abuse documented in bruises and fractures lay before me.

The clinical reports couldn’t capture the fear I had seen in Alex’s eyes or how he flinched at unexpected movements.

As I took another sip, I felt the burn travel down my throat. I had represented dozens of corporate clients, negotiated billion-dollar deals, and faced off against some of the most aggressive opposing counsel in the country. Yet nothing had affected me like these photographs.

The thought of Alex sleeping in a seedy motel—or worse, in his car—while Marcus Delaney enjoyed the comforts of his penthouse made my blood boil.

The legal system was supposed to protect individuals like Alex, but it moved at a glacial pace while the wealthy and connected twisted it to their advantage.

My phone sat on the counter, Alex’s number now stored in my contacts.

When I had called earlier under the pretext of providing case updates, the truth was more straightforward: I was worried.

There was a stubborn pride in Alex’s voice when he rejected my offer of financial assistance that both frustrated and impressed me.

After everything he had endured, he still fought to maintain his independence.

I gathered the files, setting aside the most graphic photographs first. I reassured myself that my reaction was normal—any decent human being would be affected by such evidence. My concern was professional, appropriate for an attorney representing a vulnerable client.

But as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, passing the empty guest room with its untouched bed and pristine bathroom, I couldn’t shake the image of Alex huddled somewhere unsafe, alone and afraid.

This case had become personal for me. I could no longer pretend otherwise.