Page 43 of Client Privilege

Damian

“LET’S GO through the financial impact statements once more,” I said, spreading the documents across the conference room table.

Alex sat beside me, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of my own shampoo in his hair.

Sandra and Mitchell sat across from us, Mitchell eagerly flipping through his colour-coded notes while Sandra studied us with that penetrating gaze that had intimidated associates and partners alike for fifteen years.

Alex shifted uncomfortably. “It feels like I’m claiming money for paintings I never created.”

“You never created them because Marcus deliberately sabotaged your career,” I said, my hand moving instinctively toward his before I caught myself and redirected it to straighten a stack of papers instead. “That’s exactly what we’re compensating.”

Sandra’s eyebrow arched slightly, her gaze flicking between my hand and Alex’s face. I pretended not to notice .

“I’ve prepared a timeline of the career interference,” she said, sliding a document forward. “Including the cease-and-desist letters Marcus sent to galleries and the sudden withdrawal of your works from exhibition.”

Alex leaned forward to examine it, his shoulder brushing against mine. Neither of us pulled away.

“This is… thorough,” he said, voice tinged with wonder. “You found exhibitions I’d forgotten about.”

“Sandra leaves no stone unturned,” I said with pride.

“Some stones should perhaps remain unturned,” Sandra replied with pointed emphasis, giving me a look that could freeze boiling water.

Mitchell, oblivious to the subtext, continued enthusiastically. “I’ve prepared a separate brief on the psychological damages. The literature on recovery from intimate partner violence suggests therapy costs for at least five years, possibly longer.”

“Five years?” Alex looked stricken.

“It’s not a prison sentence,” I said softly. “It’s ensuring you have resources for healing on your own timeline.”

Our eyes met, and something passed between us—understanding, connection, perhaps more. Sandra cleared her throat loudly.

“Mitchell, why don’t you and Alex review the psychological assessment report? I need a word with Damian about the Justice Sommers brief.”

As they left for Mitchell’s office, Sandra closed the conference room door with deliberate care.

“You’re playing with fire,” she said without preamble.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” She sat down, her expression softening slightly. “Damian, I’ve known you for just about your entire professional career. I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him. ”

I stared down at my papers, uncharacteristically lost for words.

“The ethics committee would have a field day,” she continued. “Client vulnerability, power imbalance—”

“I know the rules, Sandra.” My voice came out sharper than intended. “Nothing has happened.”

“Yet.” She sighed. “Look, I’m not blind to what’s happening here. He’s healing. You’re… whatever the opposite of your usual robot self is.”

“Thanks, really” I said dryly.

“I’m just saying… be careful. For both your sakes.” She gathered her files. “The civil case starts Monday. What happens after that is between you two, though I’d recommend waiting a respectable period before anything official.”

I looked up, surprised by her shift in tone.

“You’re not going to lecture me more about professional ethics?”

A rare smile crossed her face. “Would it make any difference? Besides, I’ve seen how he looks at you too.” She stood, straightening her impeccable suit. “Just don’t do anything stupid before Monday. Justice Sommers is already taking heat for fast-tracking this case.”

As she reached the door, she turned back. “And Damian? I’ve never seen you happier than these past few weeks. Complicated as it is.”

The door closed behind her, leaving me alone with thoughts of Monday—and everything that might come after.

Alex

I SAT in the courtroom, my spine rigid against the wooden bench. Justice Sommers entered, her silver hair caught the morning light as she took her place at the bench. Her reputation for fairness had preceded her, but I still felt my stomach twist with anxiety.

“Good morning,” she said, adjusting her glasses.

“Before we begin these civil proceedings, I’d like to establish certain parameters.

” She shuffled through some papers before continuing.

“Given that Mr. Delaney has already been convicted in criminal court for actions directly related to this case, certain facts have been legally established and are not subject to dispute in these proceedings.”

Across the aisle, Edward Blackwood rose to his feet. “Your Honour, while we acknowledge the criminal conviction, we believe these are separate matters entirely. The standard of proof—”

“I’m well aware of the different standards, Mr. Blackwood,” Justice Sommers interrupted, her tone crisp. “However, the jury tampering alone has been established beyond reasonable doubt. Mr. Delaney’s confession was recorded and authenticated. These facts are not in dispute.”

I glanced at Damian, who maintained a professional demeanour, but I caught the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look at me directly—we’d agreed to maintain strict professional distance in court—but I felt his confidence like a steady hand at my back.

“Furthermore,” Justice Sommers continued, “the court takes judicial notice that Mr. Delaney was found in possession of Mr. Lajeunesse’s artwork and pet, despite testifying under oath that he had neither.”

Blackwood’s shoulders tensed. “Your Honour—”

“You’ll have your opportunity to present your case, Mr. Blackwood. But this court will not re-litigate established facts. To do otherwise would be a waste of mine and this court’s time,” She tapped her gavel once. “Now, Mr. Richards, your opening statement.”

Damian rose, buttoning his suit jacket. He approached the bench with measured steps, turning to face the small gallery.

“Your Honour, this case is about accountability. It’s about ensuring that Mr. Lajeunesse receives fair compensation for the documented damages caused by Mr. Delaney’s actions.

” His voice filled the room without seeming to rise.

“We will demonstrate that Mr. Delaney painstakingly destroyed my client’s artistic career, causing financial losses exceeding $300,000.

We will show how his actions resulted in substantial medical expenses, ongoing therapy costs, and significant emotional distress. ”

As Damian outlined our case, I watched the court reporter’s fingers fly across her keyboard. The judge nodded occasionally, her expression unreadable. I tried to keep my face equally neutral, though my heart hammered against my ribs.

“The evidence will show that Mr. Delaney’s actions were not only harmful but calculated to isolate and control Mr. Lajeunesse, destroying his professional prospects and personal autonomy.

” Damian’s gaze swept the courtroom. “Justice demands more than criminal punishment—it requires making Mr. Lajeunesse whole to the extent possible.”

When Damian returned to our table, he sat without looking at me, maintaining our agreed-upon professional distance. But beneath the table, his pinky finger brushed against mine for just a moment—so brief I might have imagined it, yet it steadied me instantly.

Blackwood’s opening statement focused on portraying Marcus as a benefactor who’d supported my career rather than destroyed it.

“Mr. Delaney invested significant resources in Mr. Lajeunesse’s artistic development,” he argued.

“Any career setbacks were the result of Mr. Lajeunesse’s own choices and artistic limitations, not Mr. Delaney’s actions. ”

I kept my expression carefully blank, though each word felt like sandpaper against raw skin. Blackwood painted a picture of Marcus as a misunderstood patron, and me as an ungrateful opportunist.

When he finished, Justice Sommers called our first witness—Professor Claude Mercier from my art school.

As he testified about my early promise and the abrupt end to my career, I stole a glance at Damian.

His attention remained fixed on the witness, but something in his posture—a slight lean toward me, a protective angle of his shoulders—betrayed his awareness of my discomfort.

Throughout the morning, our witnesses established the timeline of my career’s destruction.

Gallery owner Elizabeth Tremblay described how Marcus had personally delivered my “resignation” and pressured her to cancel my exhibition.

My former agent testified about Marcus’s interference with potential buyers.

During the lunch recess, Damian and I stepped into a small conference room, finally alone.

“You’re doing great,” he said, his professional mask slipping momentarily. “Sommers is clearly seeing through Blackwood’s attempts to separate the cases.”

“She seems tough but fair,” I said, unwrapping the sandwich Sandra had brought us.

“She is. That’s why I wanted her for this case all along.” Damian checked his watch. “You’ll testify after lunch. Just remember—”

“Tell the truth. Stay calm. Speak clearly.” I’d rehearsed these instructions for days.

Damian’s eyes softened. “You’ve got this, Alex.”

For a moment, we stood close enough that I could smell his cologne. His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before he stepped back, clearing his throat.

“We should get back,” he said, his professional demeanour sliding back into place.

When court resumed, I took the stand, swearing to tell the truth with a steady voice that surprised even me. Damian guided me through my testimony with practiced precision, his questions building a clear narrative of Marcus’s control and its impact on my life and career.

“Can you describe what happened to your artwork?” Damian asked.