Page 11 of Client Privilege

Alex

DAY FIVE at the Parkview Motel. I’d established a routine of sorts—if you could call pacing a fifteen-by-twelve foot cage a routine.

Wake up at dawn when the light filtered through the threadbare curtains.

Splash water on my face in the rust-stained sink.

Eat whatever non-perishable food I’d managed to acquire from the corner store two blocks away.

Then wait. For what, I wasn’t sure. For Marcus to find me. For the case to start in court. For my money to run out. For something to change.

I hadn’t left the room in two days. My supplies were dwindling—down to a package of crackers, a jar of peanut butter, and three bottles of water.

The thought of venturing outside made my heart race.

What if Marcus had people looking for me?

What if someone recognized me from the photos he’d surely distributed?

What if he was out there himself, cruising the streets in his sleek black Audi?

I peered through a gap in the curtains. The parking lot looked the same as it had yesterday—a couple of beat-up sedans, a delivery van with a dented fender, the motel manager smoking by the ice machine. No black Audi. No Marcus.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking .

My phone buzzed with a text from Damian.

My stomach lurched. I’d see Marcus tomorrow. In person. The thought made me dizzy with fear .

Another text followed:

I stared at the message. The offer was tempting—to hide here while Damian handled everything. But I needed my things. More importantly, I needed Buster. The thought of my cat alone with Marcus made me physically ill. What if he was hurting him to punish me?

I typed back, and the response came quickly:

Relief washed over me, followed immediately by suspicion. Marcus wouldn’t give up Buster that easily. He knew how much I loved that cat. There would be a catch. There was always a catch with Marcus.

I spent the rest of the day sketching obsessively, trying to quiet the voice in my head that kept whispering that this was a trap. By evening, my fingers were cramped and stained with graphite, and I had filled pages with the same image over and over—Buster in a cage, reaching through the bars.

THE NEXT MORNING , I woke to another text. Unknown number.

My blood ran cold. How had he gotten this number? Damian had helped me get a new phone, a new SIM card. I’d given the number to no one except Damian.

Another text followed, this one with an image. I clicked on it before I could stop myself.

It was Buster, curled up on the silk bedspread in the master bedroom—our bedroom. Marcus’s bedroom now. Another message arrived:

I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor, screen miraculously intact. I could still see it lighting up with another incoming message.

Somehow, I found the courage to retrieve it.

I called Damian immediately, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone.

“He texted me,” I said when he answered. “He knows my number. He knows about today.”

“Slow down, Alex,” Damian’s voice was steady, anchoring. “What exactly did he say?”

I read the messages aloud, my voice breaking on the last one.

“Forward them to me,” Damian said. “Don’t delete them. This is a clear violation of the temporary restraining order. It strengthens our case.”

“How did he get my number?”

“I don’t know,” Damian admitted. “But we’ll find out. Are you still coming today?”

“I have to,” I whispered. “For Buster.”

“I’ll have security present,” Damian assured me. “He won’t be able to touch you.”

But that wasn’t what frightened me. Marcus didn’t need to touch me to hurt me. He never had.

I ARRIVED AT Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery thirty minutes early, unable to stand the confines of the motel room any longer. The receptionist—a different one from my first visit—directed me to a conference room on the fortieth floor.

Damian was already there, reviewing documents. He looked up when I entered, his expression shifting from professional concentration to something softer.

“Alex,” he said, standing. “How are you holding up?”

I must have looked terrible—I hadn’t slept, and the shower at the motel had been lukewarm at best .

“I’m fine,” I lied, the words automatic.

Damian didn’t call me on it. Instead, he gestured to a chair beside him, not across from him. A small detail, but it meant something—we were on the same side of the table.

“I’ve arranged for two security guards to be present,” he explained. “One by the door, one by the conference table. Marcus will be accompanied by his attorney, Edward Blackwood.”

“Blackwood?” I recognized the name. “As in Blackwood Investments?”

“Yes. I’ve learned he’s Marcus’s cousin. Old money, old connections.”

Of course. Marcus always kept things in the family—or rather, in his carefully curated circle of wealthy friends who owed him favours.

“What do I need to do?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Damian said firmly. “You don’t need to speak to him at all. I’ll handle the exchange. You’re here to verify that the items are yours, nothing more.”

I nodded, though we both knew it wasn’t that simple. Being in the same room as Marcus again—breathing the same air—would be like stepping back into a nightmare.

“If at any point you need to leave, just say the word,” Damian continued. “Or use this.” He slid a small object across the table. A panic button. “Press it, and security will escort him out immediately.”

I picked it up, turning it over in my palm. Such a small thing to hold such power.

“Thank you,” I said, slipping it into my pocket.

We spent the next twenty minutes reviewing what to expect.

Damian was thorough, leaving nothing to chance.

His attention to detail should have been reassuring, but all I could think about was seeing Marcus again.

Would he look the same? Would he still wear that cologne I used to love and later came to dread?

Would he still have that ability to make me feel small with just a glance?

At precisely 2:00 PM, there was a knock at the door. I flinched, my hand automatically reaching for the panic button in my pocket.

Damian’s hand covered mine briefly. “Remember, you’re safe here.”

The door opened, and Marcus walked in.

He looked exactly the same—impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than six months’ rent at my old college apartment.

His silver hair was perfectly styled, his posture confident.

Behind him came a man who could only be Edward Blackwood, carrying a briefcase that matched his shoes.

But there was no cat carrier. No Buster.

Marcus’s eyes found mine immediately, his lips curving into that smile I knew too well—the one that never reached his eyes.

“Alex,” he said, my name like honey on his tongue. “You look thin, puppy. Are you eating properly?”

Before I could respond—not that I could have formed words—Damian stepped forward.

“Mr. Delaney, please refrain from addressing my client directly. As stipulated in the court order, this is a supervised exchange of possessions only, not a social call.”

Marcus’s smile didn’t falter as his gaze shifted to Damian. “Of course, Mr. Richards. Just concerned about Alex’s welfare. He’s always been prone to neglecting himself when upset.”

The casual way he positioned himself as the concerned partner made bile rise in my throat. Not so long ago, he’d broken two of my ribs.

“Where’s Buster?” I found my voice, ignoring Damian’s warning look.

Marcus turned back to me, his expression regretful. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid I have some distressing news. Buster seems to have… gotten out. I’ve been looking everywhere, put up posters, called all the shelters.”

“You’re lying,” I said, the words escaping before I could stop them .

His expression hardened for a split second before smoothing back into concern. “I understand you’re upset, puppy. I am too. I know how much you love that cat.”

“The court order specifically included the return of all pets,” Damian interjected. “Are you stating under oath that you no longer have possession of the cat?”

“Regrettably, yes,” Marcus said, his eyes never leaving my face. “Though I’m certain he’ll turn up. Cats are clever creatures, aren’t they, Alex? They always find their way home.”

The threat was clear. Home meant with Marcus. Buster would “turn up” when I returned.

“What have you brought?” Damian asked, gesturing to a large suitcase a security guard had wheeled in behind them.

“Just the essentials,” Marcus said smoothly. “Clothes, personal items, Alex’s medications.”

I hadn’t been on medication since I’d left Marcus. Marcus had convinced me I needed anxiety pills, sleeping pills, mood stabilizers—all prescribed by doctors who were his golf buddies. I’d stopped taking them after fleeing the hospital, and the fog I’d lived in had finally begun to lift.

Edward Blackwood stepped forward, placing his briefcase on the table. “We’ve prepared an itemized list of all contents,” he said, extracting a document. “If Mr. Lajeunesse would verify that these are indeed his possessions, we can proceed.”

I looked at the list. Clothes I recognized. Books. My old phone, which I knew would be wiped clean of any incriminating texts or photos. But no sketchbooks. No artwork. Nothing that truly mattered.

“My portfolio,” I said. “My sketchbooks. They’re not listed.”

“I don’t recall seeing any sketchbooks,” Marcus said innocently. “Perhaps you left them at the gallery?”

The gallery where I’d worked—where Marcus had gotten me fired after I left him. Another lie.

“Those items were specifically included in the court order,” Damian said, his tone hardening. “Mr. Delaney, failure to comply with a court order has serious consequences.”

Marcus spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’ve brought everything of Alex’s that I could find. If there are specific items missing, perhaps Alex could provide a more detailed list, and I can check again.”