Page 4 of Client Privilege

Alex

I ARRIVED an hour early.

Couldn’t risk being late, not when this meeting might be my only chance.

I’d barely slept in the cramped backseat of my car, jolting awake at every passing vehicle, every distant siren.

By dawn, I’d given up trying, spending the morning in a Tim Hortons nursing a single coffee until I couldn’t justify taking up space any longer.

Now I stood across the street from the gleaming tower of glass and steel that housed Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery.

People streamed in and out—men in tailored suits that probably cost more than everything I owned, women in sleek dresses and heels that clicked with purpose against the pavement.

Each of them belonged here. Each of them had somewhere to be, someone to meet, a life that made sense.

I tugged at the sleeve of my button-down shirt—the nicest thing I owned, purchased from Value Village last night just for this meeting. It had seemed professional enough then. Now, the slightly frayed cuffs and faded blue colour felt like a neon sign announcing my poverty.

The crosswalk signal changed, and my feet moved forward while my mind screamed to run. But where would I go? Back to my car with its dwindling gas tank? Back to hiding in plain sight, waiting for Marcus to find me?

The revolving door swept me into a vast marble lobby.

The temperature dropped several degrees, artificial cool air raising goosebumps on my arms. A security guard behind a polished desk looked up, his gaze sliding over me with practiced assessment.

I felt his eyes linger on my worn shoes, my cheap backpack.

“Can I help you?” His tone was professional but wary.

“I—I have an appointment. With Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery.” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

“Name?”

“Alex Lajeunesse.”

He checked something on his computer screen, then nodded. “Forty-second floor. You’ll need to sign in.”

He pushed a digital tablet toward me. My hand shook slightly as I scrawled my signature. The guard handed me a visitor’s badge, which I clipped to my shirt with unsteady fingers.

“Elevators are to your right.”

I nodded my thanks and walked toward the bank of elevators, conscious of how my footsteps echoed against the marble.

“Alex!”

I turned to see Natalie hurrying across the lobby, her practical low heels clicking against the floor.

Unlike the other polished professionals in the building, she wore a slightly rumpled blazer over dark jeans, her bag overflowing with papers.

The sight of her—someone who knew my story, who believed me—made my shoulders drop an inch from where they’d been hovering near my ears.

“You made it,” she said, reaching me with a smile. She started to extend her hand, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I almost wasn’t,” I admitted as we stepped into an elevator.

Natalie pressed the button for the forty-second floor. “That’s understandable. But Damian is good people, Alex. I wouldn’t have brought you to him otherwise.”

I studied her face, searching for signs of deception. I’d become good at that—reading micro-expressions, the subtle tells that preceded Marcus’s mood shifts. But Natalie’s eyes held only earnest concern.

“You really trust him?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

She nodded. “We go back to law school. He’s… changed since then, gotten more corporate, but underneath all that expensive tailoring, he’s still the same guy who once spent three days straight helping me prepare for a mock trial when I had the flu.”

The elevator climbed swiftly, my stomach dropping with each acceleration. When the doors slid open, we stepped into another world.

The reception area of Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery stretched before us in cool blues and greys.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of Toronto’s skyline.

Fresh flower arrangements sat on glass tables beside leather chairs that probably cost more than a month’s rent in my old apartment.

The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and money.

A woman behind a curved desk looked up as we approached. Her smile was professional, her eyes quickly taking my measure.

“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

“Alex Lajeunesse for Mr. Richards,” Natalie answered before I could speak. “I’m Natalie Wong, from the public defender’s office. We have an appointment at three.”

“Of course, Ms. Wong.” The receptionist’s demeanour warmed slightly at Natalie’s professional title. “Mr. Richards is still in a meeting. Please have a seat. Would you care for coffee? Water?”

“Water would be nice. Thank you,” I managed to say.

She gestured toward the seating area. “Someone will bring it right over.”

I chose a chair near the window, perching on its edge rather than sinking into the buttery leather. My backpack stayed on my lap, arms wrapped around it like a shield. Natalie sat beside me, close but not touching.

“You’re doing great,” she said quietly. “Just breathe.”

“I shouldn’t be here.” I glanced around at the opulent surroundings. “This is his world. People like this—they stick together.”

“Not Damian.” Natalie’s voice was firm. “His family has money, yes, but he’s always been… different. He understands what it means to use privilege responsibly.”

As Natalie spoke confidently about Damian, I studied her face.

I wanted to believe her—God, how I wanted to believe someone could help me.

But Marcus had friends everywhere. Powerful friends who’d smiled at me at gallery openings, called me “talented,” only to later ignore my desperate emails when I needed references after leaving him.

“How do you know?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “How do you know he won’t just… call Marcus after we leave?”

Natalie’s expression softened. “Because I’ve known Damian for fifteen years. Because he has principles that matter more to him than connections or money.”

I nodded, not convinced but desperate enough to pretend. I’d gotten good at that—nodding along, agreeing outwardly while my mind calculated escape routes. It was how I’d survived the last year with Marcus. It was how I’d finally gotten out.

“He’s going to ask you questions,” Natalie continued. “Some of them might be difficult. He needs to understand exactly what happened to build your case.”

“If he takes my case.”

“He will.” Her confidence was unsettling. How could she be so sure?

A young man in a crisp white shirt appeared with a glass of water on a small tray. He set it on the table beside me with a quiet “Sir” that nearly made me look over my shoulder for someone else.

“Thank you,” I murmured, waiting until he left before reaching for the glass.

As I shifted in the plush chair, my back muscles protested.

Three weeks of sleeping contorted in my ancient Honda’s backseat had left me with a constant dull ache.

My stomach growled softly—I’d rationed my last granola bar this morning, washing it down with tap water from the Tim Hortons bathroom.

The receptionist’s perfume, probably subtle to everyone else, seemed overwhelming to my heightened senses.

I tried to focus on Natalie’s words, but my mind kept drifting to practical concerns.

The parking meter I’d fed my last quarters into.

The quarter tank of gas that needed to last until…

when? Until this lawyer magically solved my problems?

Until I found a job that Marcus couldn’t sabotage?

Until I figured out how to disappear completely?

Other people moved through the reception area—lawyers with briefcases, clients in expensive clothes, assistants carrying tablets. Each of them walked with confidence, with purpose. None of them looked twice at the water glass I held with both hands to keep from spilling.

Marcus’s office had been like this. All glass and chrome and power. I’d felt small there too, grateful to be included in his world. That gratitude had been the first hook he’d sunk into me. The first of many.

Was I making the same mistake again? Trading one powerful man for another?

No. This was different. This was business. I was a client, not a… not whatever I’d been to Marcus. And I’d leave the moment it felt wrong. I knew the warning signs now.

My palms dampened the glass. I set it down carefully on a coaster, wiped my hands against my jeans. Breathed. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. The breathing exercise my therapist had taught me before Marcus convinced me therapy was a waste of money .

The receptionist’s phone buzzed. She spoke quietly, then looked up at us.

“Ms. Wong, Mr. Lajeunesse? Mr. Richards will see you now.”

I stood too quickly, nearly knocking over the water glass. “Sorry,” I said automatically, steadying it.

“It’s fine.” Her smile remained pleasant, professional. “Follow me, please.”

I trailed behind her down a corridor lined with offices, Natalie walking steadily beside me. Through glass walls, I glimpsed people at desks, in meetings, all of them looking like they belonged in this temple of success. My steps slowed as we approached a corner office, larger than the others.

The receptionist paused at the threshold. “Mr. Lajeunesse and Ms. Wong are here, Mr. Richards.”

“Thank you, Jennifer. Please send them in.”

The voice was deep, authoritative. My stomach tightened. Jennifer stepped aside, gesturing us forward. I forced my feet to move, clutching my backpack like a lifeline. Natalie’s presence beside me was the only thing keeping me from bolting.

The office was spacious, with the same stunning view of the city. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes. A conference table occupied one corner, while an enormous desk dominated the space.

And behind it stood Damian Richards.