Page 37 of Client Privilege

“Detective Mathers, in your professional opinion, were Mr. Lajeunesse’s injuries consistent with his account of the assault?” Victoria asked.

“Completely,” Helena replied. “The bruising pattern on his neck matched a manual strangulation attempt. The door to his motel room was broken inward with force consistent with someone of Mr. Delaney’s size and strength.”

“And the recording?”

“Our technical team verified its authenticity. It has not been edited or altered in any way.”

When Victoria called her next witness, my breath caught. A small, balding man in an ill-fitting suit approached the stand.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Gerald Aubrey.”

“And your occupation?”

“I’m a bank manager at the downtown branch of TD Canada Trust.”

Victoria handed him a document. “Can you identify this record?”

He adjusted his glasses. “This is a record of cash withdrawals from Marcus Delaney’s personal account. Two withdrawals of fifty thousand dollars each, made the day before jury selection began in the civil trial.”

The courtroom erupted in whispers. Judge Collins gaveled for order.

“And these withdrawals—were they typical for Mr. Delaney’s spending patterns?”

“No. Mr. Delaney rarely withdraws cash, and never in such large amounts. ”

Marcus’s lawyer objected repeatedly, but the damage was done. The financial evidence corroborated the recorded confession perfectly.

By late afternoon, Victoria had presented a mountain of evidence—medical records, police reports, the door from my motel room with Marcus’s fingerprints, the recording, and the bank records.

When court adjourned for the day, I felt drained but cautiously hopeful. In the hallway, Victoria pulled me aside.

“Tomorrow, the defence presents their case. Be prepared—they’ll call character witnesses, try to paint Marcus as a pillar of the community. It will be hard to hear.”

I nodded. “I’m ready.”

But as we left the courthouse, I spotted Marcus watching me from the top of the steps, his eyes cold despite his pleasant expression. Damian moved protectively closer.

“He can’t touch you,” he reminded me. “The protective order is still in effect.”

“He doesn’t need to touch me to hurt me,” I said quietly.

THE COURTROOM’S TENSION followed us home like a shadow. I’d held myself together with sheer willpower during the proceedings, but as Damian closed his front door behind us, something inside me cracked.

“I can’t—” My voice broke. “I thought I was ready, but seeing him there, so confident, like none of this matters…”

Damian set his briefcase down. “Alex—”

“He’s going to find a way out of this. He always does.” My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “You don’t understand what he’s capable of. ”

“I’ve seen exactly what he’s capable of,” Damian said quietly. “I found you at that motel.”

The memory hit me like a physical blow—Marcus’s hands around my throat, the door splintering, the wild look in his eyes. My knees buckled, and Damian caught me before I hit the floor.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, guiding me to the sofa. “Just breathe.”

I tried, but my lungs refused to cooperate. The room tilted sideways as panic swallowed me whole.

“Alex, look at me.” Damian knelt in front of me, his hands steady on my shoulders. “Count with me. Five things you can see.”

I forced my eyes to focus. “Your… your tie. The coffee table. That painting. The window. Your eyes.”

“Good. Four things you can touch.”

My fingers found purchase. “The sofa. My shirt. Your sleeve. The cushion.”

With each sense we catalogued, my breathing slowed. Damian stayed there, patient and solid, until the room stopped spinning.

“Sorry,” I whispered, embarrassed by my breakdown.

“Don’t apologize for being human.” He moved to sit beside me. “What you did today took extraordinary courage.”

I shook my head. “I fell apart the minute we got home.”

“Home,” Damian repeated softly.

The word hung between us. This wasn’t my home—it was a temporary sanctuary, a guest room in the house of the man who’d saved me. Yet somehow, in these few weeks, it had begun to feel like home in ways Marcus’s mansion never had.

“I meant your home,” I corrected, staring at my hands. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice had dropped to something barely above a whisper. “I like hearing you call it that.”

I looked up, finding his eyes on me with an intensity that made my breath catch again—but differently this time.

“Damian…”

“You should eat something,” he said abruptly, standing. “I’ll make us dinner.”

I followed him to the kitchen, watching as he moved efficiently through the space, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.

“Can I help?” I asked.

He handed me an onion and a knife. “Chop this?”

The simple task anchored me. We worked side by side, the silence comfortable between us. When his arm brushed mine reaching for the salt, I felt the contact like electricity.

“What happens after?” I asked, not looking up from the cutting board.

“After what?”

“After the trial. After… everything.” I set down the knife. “What happens to us?”

Damian’s hands stilled. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you want, Alex.” He turned to face me. “On what you need.”

“I don’t know what I need anymore.” My voice trembled. “Everything I thought I knew about myself, about what I wanted—Marcus twisted all of it.”

“Then you take time. You rediscover who you are without his influence.”

“And you?” I stepped closer. “Where do you fit in that future?”

His eyes darkened. “Alex…”

“Because I think about it. About you.” The confession tumbled out before I could stop it. “About what might happen if we weren’t lawyer and client.”

Damian’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, he looked utterly unguarded—vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before .

“I think about it too,” he admitted, his voice rough.

We stood so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. My eyes dropped to his mouth, and I swayed forward, drawn by something stronger than gravity.

His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with exquisite gentleness. For one suspended moment, I thought he would close the distance between us.

Instead, he stepped back, his expression pained.

“I can’t,” he said. “Not while I’m representing you. Not while you’re staying in my home. The power imbalance—”

“I understand,” I said quickly, mortification burning through me. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” His voice was firm. “This isn’t about what you did or didn’t do. It’s about ethics. About making sure I don’t take advantage of your vulnerability.”

I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“Alex.” He waited until I looked up. “When this is over—when Marcus is behind bars and you’re truly free—we can revisit this conversation. If you still want to.”

“And if I do?”

The smile that crossed his face was worth every moment of uncertainty.

“Then I’ll be here,” he promised. “For as long as you need.”

I SAT IN the courtroom the next morning, my hands twisting nervously in my lap as Crown Prosecutor Victoria Chang methodically dismantled Marcus’s defence. The trial had entered its second day, and after my testimony yesterday, I felt hollowed out but determined to see this through.

“Your Honour,” Chang said, her voice clear and confident, “I’d like to call Dr. Anjali Patel to the stand.”

A woman in her forties with a crisp white lab coat over a navy pantsuit approached. After being sworn in, she settled into the witness chair with the easy confidence of someone used to testifying.

“Dr. Patel, please state your credentials for the court,” Chang requested.

“I’m a forensic pathologist with twenty years of experience. I specialize in pattern injuries and wound analysis, particularly in domestic violence cases.”

“And you’ve reviewed the medical records and photographs of Alex Lajeunesse’s injuries from September 17th, as well as those from the incident at the Parkview Motel?”

“Yes, I have.”

Chang handed her a folder. “Could you explain to the jury what these images show?”

Dr. Patel opened the folder, her expression remaining professionally neutral despite the disturbing contents.

“These photographs document multiple injuries consistent with prolonged physical assault. The pattern of bruising on the torso indicates repeated blows with a closed fist. The lacerations on the back show distinctive markings consistent with being struck by a belt—specifically a belt with a metal buckle of particular dimensions.”

I stared at my hands, unable to look at the images being displayed on the courtroom monitor. I could feel the jurors’ eyes moving between the photographs and Marcus, who maintained a perfectly composed expression of concern.

“Could these injuries have been self-inflicted, as the defence has suggested?” Chang asked.

“Absolutely not.” Dr. Patel’s certainty filled the courtroom.

“The angle and distribution of these injuries make self-infliction physically impossible. Additionally, the bruising patterns on the neck from the motel incident show clear finger marks consistent with manual strangulation attempted by someone with larger hands than the victim.”

“And your conclusion?”

“These injuries were inflicted by another person, someone physically stronger than Mr. Lajeunesse. The pattern, severity, and progression of injuries over time is consistent with escalating domestic violence.”

Blackwood stood for cross-examination, his expensive suit rustling softly. “Dr. Patel, you’ve testified about the September 17th injuries, but you didn’t personally examine Mr. Lajeunesse at the time, correct?”

“That’s correct. I’ve reviewed the medical records and photographs.”

“So your assessment is secondhand, based on documentation rather than direct observation?”

“Yes, but the photographic evidence is extremely clear. These images were taken according to forensic protocols.”

“But you can’t state with certainty who caused these injuries, can you?”