Page 12 of Client Privilege

Richards nodded. “Natalie mentioned his name. Go on.”

“He’s going to kill me if he finds me.” The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. “And he will find me. It’s just a matter of time.”

When I mentioned Marcus’s name, something flickered in Richards’s eyes—not pity, but something sharper. His posture shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly straightening. His gaze, which had been professionally polite, became more focused, like a lens suddenly coming into perfect clarity.

“Go on,” he said, and though his tone remained measured, there was a new quality to it that I couldn’t quite place. Richards was hard to read. His control was impressive, but not perfect.

‘I’ve been moving constantly since I left the hospital,’ I explained, my voice dropping lower. ‘Never staying in the same place twice. The cash my professor gave me is almost gone, but I can’t risk getting a job—Marcus has connections everywhere. He’d find me within days.’

Richards reached for a glass of water on his desk, and I noticed his knuckles whitening slightly around it. He took a measured sip before setting it down with deliberate care, as though consciously controlling his movements.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning Mr. Lajeunesse, starting from when you met Mr. Delaney and the relationship commenced,” he said quietly. “Take your time. I’m listening.”

His voice had softened, just slightly. Not the false gentleness Marcus used when he was most dangerous, but something genuine. Something that made the tight band around my chest loosen, just a fraction.

I took a deep breath. And for the first time in weeks, I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone in this fight anymore.

Damian

I WATCHEDAlex Lajeunesse settle back into the chair across from my desk. His knuckles whitened around the strap of his backpack—a battered thing that had seen better days. He clutched it like a lifeline, as though it contained everything valuable he had left in the world. Perhaps it did.

“Take your time,” I said, keeping my voice deliberately calm. Professional distance—that was the key. I’d mastered it years ago, perfected the art of listening to clients’ trauma without letting it touch me.

But something about Alex was different.

He sat perched on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. His eyes—an unusual shade of green with flecks of amber—constantly darted toward the door, the windows, back to me, then to Natalie. Cataloguing escape routes. A textbook trauma response I’d seen countless times in abuse victims.

Yet there was something else there, something that made my chest tighten in a way that felt distinctly unprofessional.

“I met Marcus at a gallery opening,” Alex began. His voice was soft but had a pleasing timbre. “I was working there—just hanging artwork, not my own stuff. He bought a painting. Came back the next day and asked me to dinner.”

As he spoke, I found myself noticing details I should have been able to ignore. The way his hair fell across his forehead when he looked down. The elegant line of his throat when he swallowed nervously. The slight tremor in his hands that he tried to hide by gripping the backpack tighter.

“I was twenty-one. He was… older. Established. Successful.” Alex’s mouth twisted. “I thought it was flattering that someone like him would notice someone like me.”

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral despite the familiar patternemerging. Predators like Delaney followed a script—find someone vulnerable, isolate them, break them down. I’d represented victims before during my articling year under the Crown prosecutor, but something about seeing it played out on Alex’s face made rage flicker in my chest.

“It was good at first. He was charming. Generous.” Alex’s eyes dropped to his lap. “But there were… rules. So many rules. What I could wear. Who I could talk to. When I could leave the house.”

I wrote notes mechanically, my pen moving across the legal pad while my mind catalogued the textbook escalation pattern. But beneath my professional assessment, something primal was stirring—a protective instinct I hadn’t felt in years, if ever.

“The first time he hit me was six months in. I’d gone for coffee with a classmate from my art course.” Alex’s voice flattened, becoming clinical, detached. “He apologized after. Said it would never happen again. I believed him.”

Natalie shifted beside him, her face carefully blank. She’d heard this part before.

“When did you move in with him?” I asked, knowing the answer before he spoke.

“Three months after we met. My lease was up, and he said it was silly to pay rent when he had all that space.” Alex’s laugh was hollow. “He’d already convinced me to drop most of my classes by then. Said I didn’t need a degree when I had him with all of his connections within the art community.”

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral even as I imagined Delaney—whose face I knew from charity galas and newspaper business sections—systematically dismantling this young man’s independence.

“He controlled the money?” I asked.

“Everything.” Alex’s fingers twisted together. “My phone, my bankaccount. Even my ID was locked in his safe. I couldn’t leave because I had nowhere to go, no way to support myself. He made sure of that.”

As Alex continued, the story unfolded with a nauseating predictability. The isolation from friends. The criticisms disguised as helpful suggestions. The financial control that became a cage. The escalating violence when other methods of control failed.

What wasn’t predictable was my reaction. With each new detail, my carefully maintained professional distance cracked further. I found myself leaning forward, forgetting to take notes, caught in the quiet intensity of his words.

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