Page 2 of Client Privilege

A strangled sound escaped my throat—half laugh, half sob. How many times had I told myself that in the weeks since I’d fled the hospital? How many nights had I curled up in the backseat of my car, whispering it like a mantra that never quite took hold?

“Marcus has connections,” I said instead. “Money. People who owe him favours.”

“And you have the truth,” she replied simply.

I looked down at my hands, still trembling against the tabletop.

“Is that enough?”

She didn’t answer immediately, and in that pause, I heard the truth. It might not be. But it was all I had.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” she said, opening a folder. “Tell me everything you can remember.”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. For Buster. For the broken person I’d been that night. For whatever remained of me now.

“His name is Marcus Delaney,” I began, my voice stronger than I expected. “And three weeks ago, he almost killed me.”

I kept my eyes fixed on the scratched surface of the conference room table as I spoke, unable to meet Natalie’s gaze.

“After I got to the hospital, I was… pretty messed up. Broken ribs, concussion, internal bleeding.” My voice sounded hollow, distant, like it belonged to someone else. “The doctors said if I’d arrived an hour later…”

I trailed off, swallowing hard. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Take your time,” Natalie said softly.

“This wasn’t the first time,” I continued. “But it was the worst. Usually, he was… careful. Nothing that would show. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away.”

I tugged at my sleeve, revealing the cigarette burn scars dotting my forearm. “He’d say it was an accident. That I moved at the wrong moment. That I should be more careful.”

Natalie’s pen moved steadily across her legal pad, her expression professionally neutral. But I caught the tightness around her eyes, the subtle clench of her jaw .

“That night, though—he was different. Out of control. He found my sketchbook and saw I’d been outside without permission.” I laughed, a brittle sound that hurt my throat. “Imagine needing permission to sit on a park bench at twenty-four years old.”

I took another sip of water.

“He… hurt me. In ways he knew would…” I felt my face flush with shame. “He knew what would break me the most.”

Natalie nodded slightly, understanding what I couldn’t bring myself to say explicitly. She didn’t push, just waited.

“When I woke up in the hospital, a nurse helped me. She kept Marcus away that night, gave me time to think. I knew if I saw him, if he apologized and promised it would never happen again—like all the times before—I’d believe him. I always did.”

My fingers traced invisible patterns on the table.

“I left as soon as I could through a service entrance in borrowed scrubs. No discharge papers, no follow-up appointment. Just… gone.”

“Where did you go?” Natalie asked.

“I called my former art professor from Montreal—Claude Mercier,” I said, the memory still raw.

“He was the only person I could think of who Marcus might not immediately suspect. Marcus had sent him a cease and desist letter years ago when Claude tried to check on me after I dropped out of art school. He thought Claude would never risk his career by helping me.”

“And did he? Help you?”

I nodded. “He drove all the way from Montreal that night. Found me at a diner near the hospital. He gave me cash, helped me buy a cheap used car—the Honda I’m living in now, it’s actually registered in his name since I don’t have photo ID currently—and loaned me enough for temporary accommodation.

” I swallowed hard. “He wanted me to go back to Montreal with him, where he could properly help me, but I knew that wasn’t safe.

Marcus would look for me there eventually. ”

“Have you stayed in contact with Professor Mercier?”

“Minimal contact. I call from different numbers occasionally, just to let him know I’m alive. He’s been worried.” I looked down at my hands. “He’s the only person from my old life who tried to help me. The only one Marcus couldn’t completely cut off.”

I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion settling into my bones.

“I’ve been living in the car, moving around. But two days ago, he found me.” My voice cracked. “Left a collar—Buster’s collar—on the windshield while I was inside a convenience store. With a note saying if I wanted to see my cat alive again, I should come home.”

Natalie set down her pen. “Alex, what you’ve described constitutes serious criminal behaviour—assault, battery, false imprisonment, and…”

“Rape,” I finished for her, the word burning like acid. “You can say it. I need to get used to hearing it.”

She nodded, her eyes gentle but unflinching.

“Do you have any documentation of your injuries? Hospital records? Photos?”

I shook my head. “I ran before they could complete the paperwork. And Marcus… he made me get rid of my phone months ago. Said I only needed the one he gave me—the one he could check whenever he wanted.”

“What about Professor Mercier? Could he testify about your condition when he found you?”

“Yes,” I said, hope flickering briefly. “He saw me right after. He knows I wouldn’t have called him in the middle of the night unless it was desperate.”

“That could be valuable,” Natalie noted, writing something down. “Contemporaneous witnesses who can attest to your injuries and state of mind are important.”

Natalie closed her folder. “Alex, thank you for trusting me with your story. What you’ve done today—coming here, speaking up—that takes immense courage.”

I didn’t feel courageous. I felt hollowed out, exhausted.

“What happens now?”

“I need to review everything you’ve told me. Research similar cases, consider our options.” She hesitated. “I want to be honest with you—cases like this are challenging. The burden of proof is high, and without documentation…”

“I know.” I’d expected this. “But I had to try. For Buster, if nothing else.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” she promised. “Can I reach you at the number you provided?”

I nodded. “It’s a burner phone. I keep it off except for an hour each evening.”

“I’ll call you within a week with a plan.” She stood, extending her hand. “In the meantime, please consider going to a shelter. Living in your car isn’t safe.”

I didn’t take her hand—couldn’t bear the contact—but I managed a grateful nod.

“Thank you for listening,” I whispered. “No one else has.”

Natalie

I UNZIPPED my dress, letting it pool around my feet as laughter drifted up from the kitchen below. I could hear the clatter of pots and pans, my husband’s deep voice telling some ridiculous story that had our children giggling uncontrollably.

The normalcy of it all struck me like a physical blow after the day I’d had.

I sat heavily on the edge of the bed, Alex Lajeunesse’s haunted eyes still vivid in my mind. The way he’d flinched at sudden movements. The mechanical precision with which he’d recounted horrors no one should experience.

“Nat? Your dinner will be ready in ten!” my husband called up.

“Be right down,” I answered, my voice steadier than I felt.

I reached for my phone, scrolling to a contact I rarely used anymore. Our paths had diverged after law school—mine to public service, his to the gleaming towers of corporate law. But if there was ever a time to call in a favour…

The phone rang three times before he answered.

“Damian Richards.”

“It’s Natalie Wong.”

A pause. “Natalie? It’s been what, two years?”

“At least.” I took a deep breath. “I need your help, Damian.”

“Professional or personal?”

“Both.” I closed my eyes. “I have a client. Domestic abuse case, worst I’ve seen in years. The abuser is wealthy, connected—Marcus Delaney.”

I heard Damian’s sharp intake of breath. Everyone in Toronto’s legal circles knew that name.

“The victim needs specialized representation I can’t provide with my resources. He’s living in his car, for Christ’s sake.”

“Natalie, I don’t do pro-bono domestic cases. I’m corporate—”

“Cut the bullshit, Damian. You were top of our class in criminal law.”

“You know that was almost two decades ago.”

I gripped the phone tighter. “Remember when we were twenty-two and drunk on cheap wine in my dorm room? You told me you went into law to make a difference. What happened to that guy?”

“He grew up and got practical.”

“He got comfortable,” I corrected. “Listen, I know your firm takes on the occasional high-profile pro-bono case for the PR. This could be that case.”

“Doubtful. Going against someone like Delaney—”

“Is exactly why you should do it.” I lowered my voice. “You come from old money, Damian. You’re always saying you’re different from them—the ones who think wealth puts them above the law. Prove it.”

The silence stretched between us.

“You fight dirty, Natalie.”

“I fight for people who need it.” I softened my tone. “Just meet with him. That’s all I’m asking.”

Another long pause.

“Fine. One meeting. I’ll text you some times tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I breathed.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. “I haven’t agreed to anything beyond that.”

After we hung up, I sat motionless, staring at the wall. I’d done what I could. Now it was up to Damian—and Alex—to do the rest.

“Mommy! Daddy says dinner’s ready!”

I forced a smile onto my face. “Coming, sweetheart.”

As I pulled on my robe, I sent up a silent prayer that somewhere, Alex Lajeunesse was safe tonight.