Page 3 of Client Privilege

Damian

I stood in my kitchen—all gleaming stainless steel and white marble—watching the coffee drip into my mug.

Outside, the manicured grounds of my Rosedale estate were shrouded in early morning mist. The gardener would be here tomorrow to trim the hedges that lined the stone path leading to my front door.

And yet, as I moved through the grand foyer toward my study, my footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty space. For all its historical character and perfect restoration, the house felt more like a museum than a home.

I picked up my briefcase—Italian leather, a gift to myself after winning the Harrington merger case—and did a final check of my appearance in the antique mirror that hung in the entryway.

Charcoal grey suit, crisp white shirt, burgundy tie.

Not a thread out of place. At forty-three, I still maintained the same disciplined physique I’d had in my thirties, though the faint lines around my eyes told a different story.

“Perfect,” I muttered to my reflection, though the word felt hollow.

The drive to my firm’s offices in the financial district took exactly seventeen minutes at this hour. I pulled my Aston Martin into my reserved parking space at 7:02 a.m., fifteen minutes before my first meeting.

“Good morning, Mr. Richards,” the security guard said as I passed through the lobby.

I nodded in acknowledgement but didn’t break stride. The elevator whisked me to the forty-second floor, where Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery occupied the entire space. My name on the letterhead, my corner office waiting.

“Morning, Damian,” my assistant Sandra called as I passed her desk. “The Westbrook files are on your desk, and the strategy meeting for the Halston acquisition is at eight.”

“Thank you, Sandra. Coffee?”

“Already ordered. Should be here in five.”

I settled at my desk, opening my laptop and scanning through the seventy-three emails that had accumulated overnight. By the time my coffee arrived, I’d answered twenty-eight of them and flagged twelve for follow-up.

The morning passed in a blur of meetings, conference calls, and document reviews. I barely noticed when Sandra placed a sandwich on my desk at 1:15 p.m.

“You need to eat,” she said, not waiting for my response before closing my office door behind her.

I unwrapped the sandwich absently, my eyes still fixed on the contract language I was revising. The Halston acquisition would bring in seven figures in billable hours for the firm. Eight, if we could close before the end of the quarter.

At 3:30 p.m., I stood in the boardroom, addressing our team of associates.

“The OSC filing needs to be airtight. I want three separate reviews before it crosses my desk.” I fixed my gaze on the newest associate, fresh out of law school, who was frantically taking notes. “Mitchell, you’ll handle the first pass.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Richards.”

“I’ll need it by 8 a.m. tomorrow.”

The young man’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded. “Of course.”

I dismissed the meeting and returned to my office, closing the door.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the Toronto skyline, the CN Tower standing like an exclamation point against the blue September sky.

From this height, the city looked like a perfect model, everything in its place.

Just like my life.

By 7:45 p.m., the office had emptied. Even Sandra had gone home, leaving a note reminding me about a breakfast meeting tomorrow. I continued working, the soft glow of my desk lamp the only light besides the city’s twinkling skyline.

At 9:17 p.m., I finally closed my laptop. The Halston documents were as good as they were going to get tonight. I stood, stretching muscles stiff from hours of sitting, and gathered my things.

The drive home took twelve minutes at this hour. The house was dark when I pulled into the circular driveway, motion sensors triggering the exterior lights as I approached the front door.

Inside, I dropped my keys in the silver bowl on the entryway table—a piece from the 1890s that I’d found at an auction—and headed straight for the kitchen.

Opening the refrigerator, I stared at the mostly empty shelves.

A bottle of white wine. Some condiments.

A container of week-old Thai food that looked questionable.

I closed the refrigerator and opened the freezer instead. A stack of frozen meals and a half-empty bottle of vodka greeted me. I grabbed one of the meals—chicken something—and tossed it in the microwave.

While it heated, I loosened my tie and poured myself two fingers of Macallan 18 from the nearby liquor cabinet. The first sip burned pleasantly as it went down. The second was even smoother.

The microwave beeped. I retrieved the steaming plastic tray and carried it, along with my scotch, to the dining room. The massive mahogany table, which could seat sixteen, gleamed in the dim light. I sat at the head, as always, my meal looking absurdly small on the vast expanse of polished wood.

As I ate, I scrolled through work emails on my phone. Nothing urgent. Nothing that couldn’t wait until morning. I set the phone down and looked around the silent room.

The house had seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, a library, a formal living room, and a sun-room. All meticulously decorated. All perfectly maintained. All completely unused except by me.

I’d dated, of course. There had been Robert, the art dealer, two years ago.

He’d lasted three months before complaining that I was “emotionally unavailable.” Before him, there was Michael, the surgeon, who’d ended things after six months, saying we were “on different life paths.” And before that, James, who’d simply stopped calling after I cancelled our weekend plans for the third time due to work.

My last serious relationship had been with Christopher, during my second year as an associate.

He’d moved in, bringing warmth and chaos to my orderly life.

For a while, it had worked. Until the Anderson case had consumed me for six straight months, and I’d come home one day to find his things gone and a note on the kitchen counter.

I can’t compete with your career. I won’t try anymore.

I hadn’t tried again after that. It was easier this way. Cleaner. More efficient for everyone involved.

I finished my meal and my scotch, rinsed the glass, and tossed the empty tray in the recycling. It was nearly 11 p.m. now. I should sleep. Tomorrow would be another day just like this one.

As I climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen, not recognizing the number. Probably a client calling from overseas. I answered, my professional voice automatically engaging.

“Damian Richards.”

“It’s Natalie Wong.”

I paused on the landing, genuinely surprised.

Natalie and I had been close in law school—study partners, occasional drinking buddies, confidants during the stress of finals.

But our paths had diverged dramatically after graduation.

She’d chosen public service, working for the public defender’s office, while I’d gone the corporate route.

“Natalie? It’s been what, two years?”

“At least.” There was a pause. “I need your help, Damian.”

I continued up the stairs, curious despite myself. “Professional or personal?”

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

I stopped dead in my tracks. Marcus Delaney. CEO of Delaney Enterprises. Major player in Toronto real estate. Frequent donor to political campaigns. The kind of man who had judges and police chiefs on speed dial.

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

I entered my bedroom, setting my briefcase down by the door. “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.”

I sighed, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You know that was almost two decades ago.”

“Remember when we were twenty-two and drunk on cheap box wine in my dorm room?” Her voice softened with the memory. “You told me you went into law to make a difference. What happened to that guy?”

The question hit harder than it should have.

I glanced around my perfectly appointed bedroom—the custom king-sized bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets, the antique armoire that had once belonged to a British duke, the abstract painting on the wall that had cost more than my first year’s salary as an associate.

“He grew up and got practical.”

“He got comfortable,” Natalie corrected, her voice sharp. “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.” Her voice dropped lower. “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.”

I closed my eyes, remembering conversations from our law school days. Late nights discussing justice and privilege. My passionate declarations about using my family’s connections to fight for those without them. The idealistic young man I’d been seemed like a stranger now.

“You fight dirty, Natalie.”

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

I stood, walking to the window that overlooked the back garden. In the moonlight, I could make out the shapes of the carefully tended rose bushes, the stone pathway that led to the small reflecting pool. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.

Taking on Marcus Delaney would upset that control. It would be messy, complicated, potentially damaging to my career. The smart move would be to refer Natalie to someone else. Someone who specialized in this kind of case. Someone with less to lose.

And yet.

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

“Thank you,” she breathed, relief evident in her voice.

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

After we hung up, I stood at the window for a long time, looking out at my perfect garden, my perfect house, my perfect life.

Empty. All of it.

I loosened my tie completely, letting it hang around my neck as I moved to sit on the edge of my bed.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the central air system.

Everything in perfect order—the Egyptian cotton sheets turned down precisely, the antique armoire gleaming in the soft light from the bedside lamp, the abstract painting on the wall that had cost more than my first year’s salary as an associate.

What kind of case was this, really? What evidence existed? What were the chances of success against someone with Delaney’s resources? What would taking it on mean for my career, my reputation, my carefully constructed life?

The practical part of my brain calculated the risks and benefits with cold precision. The conclusion was clear: this case was all risk, no reward.

And yet, something else—something I’d thought long buried—stirred uncomfortably. The memory of who I’d once wanted to be. The principles I’d once held dear. The promises I’d made to myself in law school about the kind of lawyer, the kind of man, I would become.

One meeting. That’s all I’d promised. One meeting, and then I could walk away with a clear conscience. Refer the case to someone else. Return to my ordered, controlled existence.

The thought should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

I picked up my phone, intending to set an alarm for the morning. Instead, I found myself opening my call history, scrolling to Natalie’s number. My thumb hovered over the call button.

What was I doing? It was nearly midnight. This could wait until morning.

But the empty house pressed in around me, suddenly too quiet, too perfect, too lifeless. And somewhere out there was someone sleeping in their car, terrified of a man powerful enough to make that fear rational.

Before I could reconsider, I typed out a text. The response came almost immediately:

I set the phone down on the nightstand and lay back against the pillows, still fully dressed. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

And for the first time in just as long, that uncertainty felt almost like relief.