Page 40 of Client Privilege

Alex

I STOOD outside the Toronto Animal Services East Region shelter, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst through my chest. After everything that had happened in court—Marcus’s conviction, the revelation that Buster had been found locked in a room in Marcus’s apartment—this moment felt surreal.

“Are you ready?” Damian asked, his voice gentle beside me.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The day after the trial had concluded, we’d received the call that Buster had been transferred here from the animal hospital. He was stable, recovering, and ready to come home.

Home. The word still felt foreign on my tongue.

Inside, the shelter smelled of disinfectant and pet food. A woman with kind eyes greeted us from behind the counter.

“I’m here for Buster,” I managed, my voice wavering. “My cat.”

Her expression softened with recognition. “You must be Alex. We’ve been expecting you.” She pulled out a clipboard with forms. “If you could just fill these out, I’ll go get him ready.”

As I signed the papers with trembling hands, Damian stood close, a steady presence at my shoulder. His proximity no longer made me flinch—when had that changed?

“He’s underweight,” the woman explained when she returned, “and he’ll need special food for a while. The vet has prescribed some medication for a respiratory infection, but otherwise, he’s in remarkably good shape considering what he’s been through.”

She disappeared into the back and returned moments later carrying a pet carrier. Through the mesh door, I could see a familiar grey shape.

“Buster,” I whispered, dropping to my knees.

The carrier door opened, and slowly, cautiously, Buster emerged. He looked thinner than I remembered, his once-plush coat dull and patchy in places. But his eyes—those intelligent green eyes—were exactly the same.

He sniffed the air, took a tentative step forward, then froze. I held my breath, terrified he wouldn’t remember me.

Then he made a small chirping sound—the same noise he’d always made when greeting me—and rushed forward, butting his head against my outstretched hand.

Tears spilled down my cheeks as I gathered him into my arms, burying my face in his fur. He purred, the vibration travelling through my chest like a healing wave.

“Hey, buddy,” I murmured. “I missed you so much.”

I looked up to find Damian watching us, his expression soft with an emotion I couldn’t quite name.

“Thank you,” I said to the shelter worker, who was discreetly wiping her own eyes.

“He’s a special cat,” she replied. “The officers said he was quite vocal when they found him locked in that room. Like he knew help had finally arrived.”

Pride swelled in my chest. “He’s always been clever.”

With Buster secure in his carrier and a bag of supplies in hand, we headed to Damian’s car. The drive home—to Damian’s home, I reminded myself—passed in a blur of emotion.

“I can’t believe he’s really here,” I said, fingers pressed against the carrier door where Buster had pushed his paw through the mesh to touch me.

“Cats are remarkably resilient,” Damian said, glancing over with a smile. “Much like their owners.”

The compliment warmed me in unexpected ways.

“WELCOME HOME, BUSTER ,” I said, setting the carrier down in Damian’s living room.

We’d spent the morning preparing the house—setting up a litter box in the guest bathroom, arranging a plush bed in my room, and cat-proofing as much as possible.

Damian had surprised me by returning from a mysterious errand with bags from the pet store containing toys, scratching posts, and what he called “feline enrichment devices.”

“I did some research,” he’d explained when I’d stared at him in amazement.

Now, as Buster cautiously explored his new surroundings, Damian sat on the couch watching with the focused attention he usually reserved for legal briefs.

“Is he always this methodical?” he asked as Buster diligently sniffed each corner of the room.

I nodded, settling beside him. “He likes to know his territory. Marcus used to hate how he’d inspect everything new that came into the apartment.”

The mention of Marcus’s name no longer sent ice through my veins.

“Smart cat,” Damian commented. “Suspicious of Marcus’s possessions from the start.”

The joke startled a laugh from me. “I should have paid more attention to his instincts.”

Buster completed his inspection and jumped onto the couch, carefully positioning himself in the space between Damian and me. He kneaded the cushion, purring loudly.

“I think he approves,” Damian said, cautiously extending a hand for Buster to sniff.

Buster considered the offering, then butted his head against Damian’s fingers, demanding pets. The sight of my stoic lawyer gently scratching my cat’s ears made something twist pleasantly in my chest.

“He likes you,” I said softly.

Damian’s eyes met mine over Buster’s head. “Good. I was hoping we’d get along.”

The double meaning wasn’t lost on me.

THE FIRST WEEK with Buster transformed Damian’s house in ways I hadn’t expected.

Cat toys appeared in unlikely places. The formal dining chair became Buster’s favourite perch.

The pristine kitchen counter now featured a ceramic water fountain that Damian had researched and determined was “optimal for feline hydration.”

More surprising was the transformation in Damian himself.

I’d discover him in the morning, suit already immaculate, sitting on the floor dangling a feather toy for Buster’s amusement.

He’d installed a bird feeder outside the kitchen window to provide “environmental enrichment” and downloaded an app that helped him track Buster’s medication schedule.

Two weeks after bringing Buster home, I came downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water to find Damian on the couch, fast asleep with case files spread around him and Buster curled on his chest. The sight stopped me in my tracks—this powerful man who’d fought so fiercely for me in court, completely vulnerable in sleep, one hand protectively resting on my cat.

I stood watching them longer than I should have, something warm and frightening blooming in my chest.

When Buster’s respiratory infection worsened briefly, requiring midnight medication, Damian insisted on taking turns with me. “You need your sleep too,” he’d said simply, as if caring for my cat in the middle of the night was the most natural thing in the world.

By the third week, Buster had gained weight, his coat regaining its lustre. He’d established routines—breakfast with me, afternoon sun-bathing in Damian’s office window, evenings sprawled between us on the couch.

“He’s looking much better,” Damian observed one evening as we sat in the living room, Buster purring contentedly between us. I was sketching while Damian reviewed case files—our own routine that had developed naturally.

“Thanks to you,” I said, not looking up from my sketchbook. “I don’t know how I would have managed all this without your help.”

“You would have managed,” he said with quiet certainty. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

I glanced up to find him watching me, his expression open in a way it rarely was outside these evening moments.

“Maybe,” I conceded. “But I’m glad I didn’t have to do it alone.”

Buster chose that moment to stretch dramatically, front paws pushing against Damian’s thigh while his back paws pressed into my leg. We both laughed, the tension of the moment breaking.

“I think he agrees,” Damian said, scratching under Buster’s chin.

I returned to my sketch, adding the final touches to what I’d been working on—a portrait of Damian with Buster asleep on his lap, both of them bathed in the warm light of the reading lamp.

I’d captured the gentleness in Damian’s hands, the protective curve of his posture, the rare softness in his expression when he thought no one was watching.

“What are you drawing?” he asked, setting aside his files.

For a moment, I hesitated. Showing him felt like revealing too much—not just the drawing, but what it represented. The way I saw him. The way I felt.

“Just a sketch,” I said, but turned the pad toward him.

He took it carefully, his eyes widening slightly as he recognized the subject. For a long moment, he said nothing, just studied the drawing with an intensity that made my heart race.

“Alex,” he finally said, his voice low. “This is…”

“It’s how I see you,” I said simply. “The real you. Not just the lawyer.”

He looked up, something vulnerable and questioning in his eyes. “Is that how you see me?”

I nodded, unable to find the words for what I wanted to say—that in the weeks since the trial, since bringing Buster home, since living in this strange domestic limbo, I’d seen past the polished exterior to the man beneath.

The man who researched cat nutrition at midnight, who left his case files scattered to avoid disturbing a sleeping cat, who somehow knew exactly when to push and when to give me space.

“I like that version of me,” he said quietly, handing the sketchbook back. His fingers brushed mine, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

Buster stretched again, then hopped down, apparently deciding we needed privacy. Smart cat.

“Damian,” I began, not sure what I was going to say.

“I know,” he said, understanding in his eyes. “We’re still in a complicated situation. I’m still your lawyer. You’re still healing.”

“But?” I prompted, hearing the unspoken continuation.

A small smile touched his lips. “But I find myself looking forward to a time when those complications might… simplify.”

The careful phrasing was so typically Damian that I couldn’t help smiling. “You mean when you’re not my lawyer anymore?”

“And when you feel ready,” he added, his gaze steady on mine. “Both things matter to me.”

I nodded, something like hope unfurling in my chest. “I’m getting there. On the ready part.”

“Good,” he said softly. “There’s no rush.”

Buster returned, jumping back onto the couch and settling between us again, as if declaring the serious conversation finished for now. I laughed, scratching behind his ears.

“He’s quite the chaperone,” Damian observed wryly.

“He’s always had good timing,” I agreed.

As we returned to our respective activities—Damian to his files, me to a fresh page in my sketchbook—I felt a sense of peace I hadn’t expected to find again. Here, in this house, with this man and my cat safely returned to me, I could finally imagine a future worth building.

It wasn’t perfect. I still had nightmares. The civil case against Marcus was still proceeding. I still flinched at unexpected sounds sometimes.

But with Buster purring beside me and Damian’s steady presence across the couch, I was beginning to believe in possibilities I’d once thought forever lost. And that felt remarkably like hope.