Page 17 of Client Privilege

The request caught me off guard. “Like what?”

“Anything. Where you grew up. How you became an artist. Something that has nothing to do with Marcus Delaney.”

I took a sip of wine, considering. “I grew up in Montreal,” I began hesitantly. “Just me and my mom after my dad left when I was four.”

“What was that like?”

“Hard. We never had enough money.” I traced the condensation on my water glass. “My mom worked two jobs most of the time. But she always made sure I had art supplies, even when we could barely afford groceries.”

Damian listened attentively as I described our tiny apartment, the way my mother would bring home discarded magazines from the hotel where she cleaned rooms so I could cut out images for collages.

“She sounds remarkable,” he said when I paused.

“She was.” I smiled at the memory. “She didn’t understand why I wanted to draw all the time, but she supported it anyway. When I got the scholarship to art school, she cried.”

Our food arrived—perfectly seared scallops for me, steak for Damian. The first bite melted in my mouth, and I realized how long it had been since I’d had a proper meal.

“What happened to her?” Damian asked gently.

“Cancer. My first year of art school right as I was leaving to start classes.” I set down my fork. “It was fast. By the time they found it, it was everywhere. Three months from diagnosis to funeral.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I painted through it,” I continued, surprising myself with how easily the words came. “All that grief—I put it on canvas. My professor, Claude, he said it was the most honest work he’d ever seen from a first-year student.”

“Claude Mercier?” Damian asked.

I nodded, surprised. “You know him?”

“I collect Canadian art. His work is extraordinary. I didn’t realize the professor who had helped you and the Claude Mercier I know of are the same person.”

“He’s the one who helped me get the gallery internship where—” I stopped, Marcus’s shadow suddenly falling across the table.

“Where you met Marcus,” Damian finished quietly.

I nodded, the pleasant mood threatening to evaporate.

“Your professor saw something special in your work,” Damian said, redirecting the conversation. “I’d like to see it someday.”

“Most of it’s gone. Marcus either has it or destroyed it.”

“You’ll create more,” he said with such certainty that I almost believed him.

The conversation shifted to safer topics—books we’d read, places we’d travelled. Damian described growing up in Vancouver, his decision to study law instead of following his father into medicine. I found myself relaxing, drawn into the rhythm of normal conversation.

When he described a disastrous sailing trip with his law school roommates, I laughed—a real laugh that bubbled up unexpectedly from somewhere I thought had dried up long ago. The sound startled me into silence.

“What?” Damian asked, his eyes warm.

“I just—I can’t remember the last time I laughed,” I admitted.

Something shifted in his expression. “You should do it more often.”

The moment stretched between us, charged with something I wasn’t ready to name. I looked away first, suddenly aware of how comfortable I’d become in his presence.

“It’s getting late,” I said, though I felt no desire to leave.

Damian signalled for the cheque. “We have another full day tomorrow.”

As we stepped outside into the cool night air, Toronto’s skyline glittered around us.

I found myself studying Damian’s profile, the way the city lights caught the angles of his face.

This evening had felt nothing like the elaborate dinners with Marcus, which had always been performances designed to showcase his generosity, his sophistication, his control.

With Damian, the conversation had flowed naturally, his questions asked out of genuine interest rather than as a means to gather information he could use against me later.

I caught myself wondering what it would be like to do this again, to spend more evenings in his company, and immediately forced the thought away.

He was my lawyer, nothing more. These warm feelings in my chest were just gratitude, I told myself.

They had to be. Anything else would be inappropriate, dangerous even.

I couldn’t afford to blur those lines, not when my entire future depended on his professional judgment.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said, trying to distract myself from my thoughts, as we waited for the valet to bring Damian’s car.

“Thank you for the company,” he replied simply.

Damian

I PULLED into my driveway just after eleven, the house dark and silent as always. Normally, I welcomed the quiet after long days of legal battles and client meetings. Tonight, it felt hollow.

The evening with Alex kept replaying in my mind as I hung my coat and moved through the empty rooms. The way his face had transformed when he spoke about his mother, the animation in his hands as he described his early art projects.

Most of all, that unexpected laugh—startling both of us with its genuineness.

I poured myself a scotch and stood at the kitchen window, staring into the darkness of my meticulously landscaped but rarely used backyard. When was the last time I’d truly enjoyed dining with someone? Not a business meal or obligatory firm function, but actually lost track of time in conversation?

Christopher and I had stopped having real conversations months before he left. My brief relationship with Robert prior to Christopher had been more about mutual convenience than connection. Before that… I couldn’t remember.

The realization was uncomfortable. I took a long sip of scotch, letting the burn distract me from the direction my thoughts were taking.

Alex wasn’t just any client. He was vulnerable, traumatized, fighting for his safety and freedom. And I was his lawyer—the person entrusted with protecting his interests. The professional boundaries couldn’t be clearer.

Yet I couldn’t deny the pull I felt toward him.

It wasn’t just physical attraction, though that was undeniably present.

It was something more fundamental—a recognition, perhaps.

Behind his wariness and trauma, I glimpsed someone who saw the world differently than I did, someone whose perspective I wanted to understand.

“This is completely inappropriate,” I said aloud to the empty kitchen.

In my bedroom, I loosened my tie and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

The ethical dilemma was clear-cut. The Rules of Professional Conduct explicitly prohibited sexual relationships with clients where the representation involved the client’s domestic relations.

Even without that specific prohibition, the power imbalance made any romantic overture on my part potentially exploitative.

Alex had been controlled and manipulated by Marcus for years. The last thing he needed was another powerful man in his life blurring professional boundaries.

I changed into sleep clothes and tried to focus on case preparations, but my mind kept returning to dinner.

The way Alex’s eyes had lit up when talking about his art professor.

How he’d ducked his head slightly when I complimented him.

The moment of tension between us outside the restaurant that I’d deliberately broken before it could develop into something more.

My phone buzzed with a text message. I reached for it, half-expecting—hoping?—it might be Alex.

It was Sandra: “Final witness prep documents ready for tomorrow. They’ll be printed and on your desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

I texted back a quick thanks, then set the phone aside, oddly disappointed.

What was happening to me? I’d built my career on maintaining professional distance, on making decisions based on precedent and logic rather than emotion.

Now I was sitting in my bedroom at midnight, distracted by thoughts of a client’s smile.

This wasn’t just about the Rules of Professional Conduct. It was about what Alex needed. He deserved a lawyer who was focused entirely on winning his case, not one distracted by inappropriate feelings. He needed someone he could trust completely, without questioning motives or intentions.

I finished my scotch and set the glass aside. Tomorrow would be another gruelling day of preparation. I needed to establish clear boundaries—for his sake and mine.

But as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment when Alex laughed. How it felt like witnessing something rare and precious breaking through the surface after being submerged for too long.

I’d spent my career building walls between myself and my clients. It was what made me effective—my ability to remain objective, to see cases as legal puzzles rather than human dramas. Now those walls were crumbling, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to rebuild them.

Sleep eluded me as I wrestled with contradictory impulses. The lawyer in me knew exactly where the ethical lines were drawn. The man in me desperately wanted to cross them .

I thought of Justice Sommers’ words about the domestic violence victim she’d failed by following procedure too rigidly. “Sometimes the system protects the wrong people,” she’d said.

But this was different. The ethical rules around client relationships existed to protect vulnerable clients like Alex. Breaking them wouldn’t be an act of justice; it would be self-serving.

By the time dawn broke, I’d made my decision.

I would continue representing Alex with every professional skill at my disposal.

I would offer him safety, security, and the best legal defence possible.

And I would keep my growing feelings firmly in check, at least until the case was resolved and I was no longer his lawyer.

After that… I couldn’t allow myself to think that far ahead. One day at a time. That was how Alex was surviving, and it was how I would handle these unexpected feelings.

I rose earlier than usual, showered, and dressed with particular care. As I knotted my tie, I rehearsed the conversation I planned to have with Alex about house rules and boundaries while he stayed with me. Clear expectations. Separate spaces. Professional distance.

The morning light streamed through my bedroom window, illuminating the empty half of my king-sized bed. For the first time in years, the sight made me feel something other than indifference.

I pushed the feeling aside and headed downstairs to make coffee, already reviewing case notes in my head. Today I would be Damian Richards, attorney at law. Nothing more, nothing less.

The rest would have to wait.