Page 16 of Client Privilege

Alex

THE CONFERENCE room felt like a war room. Documents covered the massive table, stacks of legal precedents towered in corners, and three laptops displayed different aspects of our case. My stomach knotted as I reviewed my testimony for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Remember, Alex, you don’t need to memorize answers,” Damian said, his voice steady as he sorted through evidence folders. “Just tell the truth exactly as you remember it.”

I nodded, but my throat tightened. The truth. The truth was that I’d spent three years being dismantled by a man who’d convinced me I was worthless. The truth was humiliating.

“What if I freeze?” I whispered, the fear that had been building all morning finally spilling out. “What if I can’t—”

The door swung open, and Sandra bustled in with a tray of coffees and pastries. “Fuel for the troops,” she announced, setting everything down with military precision. Her eyes softened when she looked at me. “And I brought you that tea you liked yesterday.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, grateful for the interruption.

Mitchell Burnett followed behind her, arms loaded with more documents. The junior associate had been helping Damian prepare our case, his enthusiasm a stark contrast to my dread.

“Alex! I found those precedents we were looking for,” he said, grinning as he dropped the stack on the table. “Three cases where the judge recognized psychological manipulation as part of the abuse pattern. Two of them even involved same-sex couples.”

“That’s… good?” I wasn’t sure how to respond to his excitement.

“It’s brilliant,” Damian confirmed, scanning the top document. “Well done, Mitchell.”

Mitchell beamed like he’d just won the lottery. “I also prepared those visual aids for the testimony sequence. Want to see them?”

“Let’s give Alex a breather first,” Sandra interjected, handing me the steaming cup of tea. “You’ve been at this since seven this morning.”

I took a grateful sip, letting the warmth spread through my chest. Sandra had an uncanny ability to sense when I was reaching my limit. Over the past few days, she’d become something of a guardian angel, appearing with food or tea whenever my anxiety peaked.

“How are you holding up?” she asked quietly while Damian and Mitchell discussed strategy across the room.

I shrugged. “I’m terrified.”

“That’s normal,” she said matter-of-factly. “But you know what? In fifteen years working with Damian Richards, I’ve never seen him this committed to a case.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And I’ve never seen him lose when he’s like this.”

“But Marcus has—”

“Money? Connections?” She waved dismissively. “Damian has something better. He has you.”

I blinked. “Me?”

“The truth,” she clarified, but there was something knowing in her eyes that made heat rise to my cheeks. “And that’s what wins in the end, no matter what the Marcus Delaneys of the world think. ”

She stirred her coffee, studying me over the rim of her cup. “You know, I’ve worked with Damian through countless cases, seen him with all sorts of clients. He’s always professional, always focused.” Her lips curved into a small smile. “But there’s something different about how he is with you.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Different how?”

Sandra tilted her head, considering her words carefully.

“He’s more… present. More invested. When you’re speaking, he listens differently.

” She shrugged. “I’ve never seen him cancel meetings with senior partners to prepare a case personally.

Or spend evenings reviewing files he could easily delegate. ”

I felt my face grow warmer, and I looked down at my tea to hide my reaction.

It was ridiculous to feel this flutter in my stomach at her words.

Damian was my lawyer—nothing more, nothing less.

Yet I couldn’t deny the way my pulse quickened when he entered a room, or how I found myself noticing details about him: the precise way he folded his cuffs when working late, the rare smile that transformed his serious face, the strength in his hands as they organized documents.

“He’s just being thorough,” I managed, trying to sound casual. “It’s a complicated case.”

Sandra’s knowing look told me she wasn’t convinced. “Of course,” she agreed, her tone suggesting anything but agreement. “Just like he’s ‘just being thorough’ when he asks me how you’re doing every morning before asking about anything else.”

I glanced across the room at Damian, who was deep in conversation with Mitchell.

In another life—one where I wasn’t broken and fighting for my freedom, one where he wasn’t my lawyer—I might have allowed myself to acknowledge how attractive he was.

The sharp intelligence in his eyes, the quiet confidence in his movements, the unexpected gentleness that occasionally slipped through his professional demeanour.

But this wasn’t another life. This was my reality, and in my reality, such thoughts were dangerous distractions I couldn’t afford.

Her confidence was so absolute that I almost believed her. Almost.

Mitchell bounded over, tablet in hand. “I’ve mapped out the most likely cross-examination questions Edward Blackwood will ask,” he said, showing me a detailed flowchart. “If we prepare for the worst, anything less will feel easy.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I asked, but found myself smiling slightly at his earnestness.

“Well, yeah,” he replied, confused. Then his face brightened.

“Oh! I almost forgot. I brought something for you.” He rummaged in his messenger bag and pulled out a small sketchbook and a set of pencils.

“Sandra mentioned you’re an artist. I thought maybe drawing might help when things get overwhelming. ”

The unexpected kindness caught me off guard. I took the sketchbook, running my fingers over its blank pages. “Thank you,” I said, my voice thick.

“It’s nothing fancy,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. “Just thought it might help.”

Damian watched this exchange with an expression I couldn’t quite read before clearing his throat. “Let’s walk through the timeline once more.”

The day progressed in a blur of preparation. Damian was relentless but patient, guiding me through potential scenarios, helping me frame my experiences in ways the court would understand. When I stumbled over particularly painful memories, he’d pause, giving me space without making me feel weak.

Sandra kept us fed and focused, while Mitchell’s optimism provided welcome relief from the gravity of what we were preparing for.

By late afternoon, I found myself sketching absently in the book Mitchell had given me—just quick studies of hands, the coffee cup, Sandra’s glasses on the table—but the familiar motion of pencil on paper steadied my nerves.

“That’s really good,” Mitchell said, peering over my shoulder at a sketch of Damian’s profile as he read documents.

I closed the book quickly. “Just a habit.”

“Your art is evidence of your talent, Alex,” Damian said without looking up from his papers. “Don’t diminish it.”

The simple statement hit me harder than expected. How long had it been since someone had valued my work without attaching conditions?

Hours passed. The sunlight shifted across the conference room, casting long shadows before fading entirely. I was deep in reviewing photographic evidence when I realized the office had grown quiet. Most of the staff had gone home.

“What time is it?” I asked, stretching my stiff shoulders.

Damian glanced at his watch and looked surprised. “Nearly nine.”

“Nine?” I blinked at the darkened windows. “We’ve been at this all day.”

“Time flies when you’re preparing for court,” Mitchell said cheerfully, though he looked exhausted.

Sandra appeared at the door. “I’m heading out. Mitchell, didn’t you have that dinner with your girlfriend’s parents tonight?”

Mitchell’s face went pale. “That was at seven. Oh god.” He scrambled for his phone. “She’s going to kill me.”

“Go,” Damian said. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Mitchell gathered his things in a panic, thanking Damian profusely while texting apologies. Sandra followed him out after giving me an encouraging smile.

Suddenly, it was just Damian and me in the vast conference room. The silence felt heavy after the day’s intensity.

“You must be starving,” Damian said, closing the folder in front of him.

My stomach growled in response, and I realized I’d barely touched the sandwich Sandra had brought me hours ago.

“There’s a place not far from here,” he continued. “If you’d like to get some proper food.”

I hesitated. Dinner with Damian outside the office felt different somehow—less protected.

“Unless you’re too tired,” he added, misreading my silence.

“No, I—” I paused. “Food would be good.”

Twenty minutes later, we were seated at a corner table in an elegant restaurant called Auberge. The soft lighting and hushed conversations created an atmosphere of privacy despite the other diners.

“Is this okay?” Damian asked as we settled in. “We can go somewhere else if you prefer.”

I glanced around at the understated luxury. “It’s nice. Just… different from where I usually eat.”

“Which is?”

“Lately? Whatever I can microwave in a motel room.” I attempted a smile.

The waiter appeared with menus, and Damian ordered wine without consulting the list. When the waiter left, I raised an eyebrow.

“They always have this particular Bordeaux,” he explained. “It’s approachable but complex.”

“Like a good lawyer?” The joke slipped out before I could stop it.

Damian’s surprise gave way to a genuine smile that transformed his face. “I’ve been called many things, but ‘approachable’ isn’t usually one of them.”

The wine arrived, and as we studied our menus, I felt some of the day’s tension begin to unwind. The restaurant’s quiet elegance created a bubble that seemed removed from the reality of my situation.

After we ordered, Damian leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something about yourself that isn’t in your case file.”