Page 44 of Client Privilege
“Marcus kept most of my original pieces at his apartment. When I left, he refused to return them.” I swallowed hard. “After his criminal conviction, police found my sketchbooks and canvases in his home—most had been slashed or damaged beyond repair.”
“And what was the financial impact of losing these works?”
“Beyond their potential sale value, I lost my portfolio—the evidence of my artistic development and skill that galleries require to represent an artist.” I forced myself to maintain eye contact with Damian, ignoring Marcus’s stare from across the room.
“Without them, I will essentially have to start over from nothing.”
During Blackwood’s cross-examination, I felt Damian’s tension though he maintained a neutral expression. Blackwood tried repeatedly to portray Marcus’s financial support as generosity rather than control.
“Isn’t it true that Mr. Delaney paid your rent? Bought your supplies? Funded your early exhibitions?” Blackwood pressed.
“He took control of my finances,” I corrected. “My earnings went into accounts he managed. What appeared to be generosity was actually my own money, doled out at his discretion.”
Blackwood’s questions grew increasingly aggressive, but Justice Sommers intervened when he began repeating himself. “Move on, Mr. Blackwood. The witness has answered this line of questioning thoroughly.”
By late afternoon, both sides had presented their cases. Justice Sommers adjusted her glasses, reviewing her notes before addressing the courtroom .
“Given the evidence presented and the established facts from the criminal proceedings, I’m prepared to rule.” She looked directly at me. “Mr. Lajeunesse, please rise.”
I stood on shaky legs, Damian rising beside me.
“This court finds in favour of the plaintiff. Mr. Delaney’s actions caused substantial and documented harm to Mr. Lajeunesse’s career, health, and well-being.
” She turned to the paperwork before her.
“I award compensatory damages in the amount of $950,000 for lost career earnings, $450,000 for emotional distress, and $200,000 for medical expenses and ongoing therapy costs.”
She paused, her gaze shifting directly to Blackwood. “Additionally, given the egregious nature of Mr. Delaney’s actions, his attempt to obstruct justice through jury tampering, and the need to deter such defence in the future, I am awarding punitive damages in the amount of 2.4 million dollars.”
The total—4 million dollars—made me dizzy. It exceeded even what we’d initially sought, and represented not just compensation but a true reckoning.
“Additionally,” Justice Sommers continued, “Court costs are assigned to the defendant.” She tapped her gavel. “We are adjourned.”
As people began filing out, I turned to Damian, overwhelmed. Our eyes met, and in that moment, all our careful professional distance evaporated. His expression held everything we hadn’t been able to say—pride, relief, and something deeper that made my heart race.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“We won,” he replied simply. “It’s over, Alex.”
As we gathered our papers, I realized he was right. It was over—the case, the danger, the uncertainty. But something else was just beginning, something I finally felt ready to explore.
Outside the courtroom, I caught Damian’s sleeve. “What happens now? ”
He understood my real question. His eyes softened as he glanced around the busy hallway. “Now,” he said quietly, “we can finally have that conversation we’ve been postponing.”
I STOOD IN Damian’s kitchen, the familiar motions of chopping and stirring calming my nerves.
Steam rose from the pot of bigos—a hearty Polish hunter’s stew my mother had taught me to make when I was barely tall enough to reach the stove.
The rich aroma of sauerkraut, mushrooms, and slow-cooked meat filled the kitchen, transforming the sleek, modern space into something that felt like home.
“That smells incredible,” Damian said, leaning against the door-frame. He’d changed from his court clothes into dark jeans and a soft grey sweater that made him look younger, more approachable.
“My mom’s recipe,” I explained, stirring the thick stew. “She always said good food speaks when words fail.”
“Wise woman,” he replied, crossing to the wine rack. “Red or white with this masterpiece?”
“Red, definitely. Something robust.”
He selected a bottle, uncorked it with practiced ease, and poured two glasses. I accepted mine with a nod of thanks, our fingers carefully not touching during the exchange.
We moved around each other in the kitchen with a strange new awareness—like dancers learning unfamiliar choreography. The weight of everything unsaid hung between us, making ordinary movements feel charged with significance.
When the meal was ready, we sat at the kitchen island rather than the formal dining room. Damian took his first bite and closed his eyes in appreciation .
“This is extraordinary, Alex. Seriously.”
I smiled, pleased by his genuine reaction. “It’s even better the second day. The flavours deepen.”
“I look forward to finding out,” he said, then paused, seeming to realize the implication that I’d still be here tomorrow.
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes before Damian set down his fork. “So,” he said carefully. “Four million dollars. That’s life-changing money.”
“It doesn’t feel real yet,” I admitted. “When I left Marcus, I had nothing but the clothes I was wearing.”
“And now you have options.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Have you thought about what you’ll do? Stay in Toronto? Start fresh somewhere else?”
The question I’d been dreading. I took a long sip of wine, gathering my thoughts.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” I said finally. “Part of me wants to run—maybe back to Montreal or to Vancouver for a fresh start, somewhere with a good art scene. I could buy a little place, set up a studio…” I trailed off, poking at my stew.
“But?” Damian prompted gently.
“But running feels like letting Marcus win somehow.” I met Damian’s eyes. “Toronto is where my life fell apart, but it’s also where I found my strength again. Where I found people who believed me.”
“Where you found justice,” Damian added quietly.
“Yes.” I took another sip of wine. “So I don’t know exactly what my future holds. I’ll restart my career, definitely. Maybe look for a small studio with good light for painting. But that’s long-term.”
“And short-term?” His voice was carefully neutral.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was the moment—the conversation we’d been dancing around for weeks .
“Short-term,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “I know what I want. But I’m not sure if it’s possible.”
“What do you want, Alex?” The intensity in his eyes made my breath catch.
I set down my glass, suddenly afraid my trembling hands would spill the wine. “I want to know what you intend to do now that we’re no longer in a professional relationship. Now that I’m not your client anymore.”
The moment stretched between us, taut with possibility. Damian’s expression softened, vulnerability replacing his usual careful control.
“That depends entirely on what you want,” he said finally. “I’ve been very… careful… about my feelings while representing you. It wouldn’t have been ethical to act on them.”
“Your feelings,” I repeated, my heart racing faster.
“Yes.” He reached across the counter, his hand stopping just short of mine. “Alex, I care about you. More than I should. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a very long time.”
I stared at his hand, resting on the granite counter-top inches from mine. Such a small distance to cross, yet it represented everything—the line between past and future, between fear and hope.
“I don’t want to pressure you,” Damian continued. “You’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. If friendship is all you want from me, I’ll respect that completely.”
Slowly, deliberately, I moved my hand forward until my fingers brushed against his. The simple contact sent electricity up my arm.
“And what if I said I want more than friendship?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
I looked up to meet his gaze. For the first time since meeting Damian Richards, I saw him without any professional armour—just a man, vulnerable and hopeful, waiting for my answer.