Page 48 of Client Privilege

Alex

I mixed cerulean blue with a touch of white, watching the colours swirl together on my palette.

Morning light streamed through the tall windows of what had once been Damian’s formal dining room but was now my studio.

Three months of work had transformed the space completely—easels replacing the massive mahogany table, canvases leaning against walls where pretentious oil paintings of dead relatives once hung.

“You’re up early,” Damian said from the doorway, two steaming mugs in his hands.

I accepted the coffee gratefully. “Couldn’t sleep. The light was perfect, and I wanted to finish this before my meeting with Caroline.”

Damian studied the nearly completed canvas—a Toronto skyline at dawn, buildings emerging from mist, colours bleeding into each other at the edges. Not the precise architectural studies I’d once been known for, but something more emotional, more honest.

“It’s extraordinary,” he said, his voice soft with genuine admiration. “Caroline will love it. ”

Caroline Wells, owner of Prism Gallery, had approached me after seeing sketches I’d posted online. Her offer of a featured exhibition had seemed impossible at first—a dream too fragile to believe in. But Damian had encouraged me to take the chance.

“I still can’t believe she wants to show my work.” I set down my brush, wiping paint-stained fingers on my already spattered jeans.

“I can,” Damian said simply. “Your work deserves to be seen.”

A loud meow interrupted us as Buster sauntered into the studio, his fluffy tail held high like a victory flag. He’d gained back all his weight and then some, his coat now glossy and thick. The respiratory infection had cleared completely, leaving him imperious and demanding as ever.

“His Majesty requires breakfast,” I laughed as Buster wound between our legs, leaving white fur on Damian’s otherwise immaculate suit trousers.

“Of course he does.” Damian bent to scratch behind Buster’s ears, utterly unconcerned about the fur. The sight still surprised me sometimes—this polished lawyer who once intimidated courtrooms now cooing at a cat.

We moved to the kitchen, Buster trotting ahead as if leading a procession. I watched as Damian prepared the cat’s breakfast with the same precision he applied to legal briefs, measuring the prescription food exactly.

“Your preliminary hearing is today, right?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

Damian nodded, his expression turning serious. “Ten o’clock. Sandra’s prepared an excellent brief.”

He’d taken on another domestic violence case last month—a young man named Jamie whose situation echoed mine in too many ways. Unlike mine, Jamie’s case wouldn’t make headlines; his abuser wasn’t wealthy or powerful, just another man who’d used love as a weapon.

“He’s lucky to have you,” I said, meaning it .

Damian shook his head. “I’m the lucky one. These cases… they matter in ways the corporate work never did.”

We settled at the breakfast nook, Buster claiming the space between us on the bench.

“I signed the papers yesterday,” Damian said casually, sipping his coffee.

I looked up, surprised. “For the foundation?”

He nodded. “The Lajeunesse Foundation for Survivors of Intimate Partner Violence is officially incorporated. The board meets next week to finalize the grant structure.”

Warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the coffee. The foundation had been Damian’s idea—using part of my settlement to help others escape situations like mine. He’d insisted it bear my name, not to claim credit, but to show others they needn’t hide in shame.

“Thank you,” I said, reaching across Buster to take his hand.

Damian squeezed my fingers. “For what?”

“For this. For everything.” I gestured vaguely at the house around us, at the life we were building. “For making space for me.”

His smile softened. “You don’t need me to make space for you, Alex. You’ve claimed it yourself, brush stroke by brush stroke.”

Buster chose that moment to stretch dramatically between us, nearly knocking over both our mugs in the process. We laughed, the moment of seriousness broken.

As I sat there—coffee in hand, cat fur on my clothes, paint under my fingernails, and Damian’s warm presence beside me—I realized with sudden clarity: this was home.

Not just this house with its evolving rooms that now held both our lives, but this feeling.

This certainty of belonging, not to someone else, but to myself.

I looked at Damian, his face illuminated by the morning light as he checked his phone for morning emails, and felt a surge of emotion that caught me by surprise with its intensity.

“I love you,” I said quietly.

It wasn’t the first time I’d said those words since that night three months ago.

We’d exchanged them countless times since—whispered in the dark, murmured over morning coffee, texted during busy workdays.

But sometimes, in ordinary moments like this, the feeling would hit me anew, as powerful as that first declaration.

Damian looked up from his phone, his expression softening immediately. This was our rhythm now—these unprompted reminders in the midst of everyday life.

“I love you too, Alex,” he replied, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. No grand gestures needed, just this quiet certainty between us.

What made it different from anything I’d known before wasn’t the words themselves, but how freely they flowed, untethered from manipulation or fear. Love as a gift freely given, not a currency to be traded.

I was exactly where I was supposed to be.