Page 21 of Client Privilege

I smiled sadly. “That’s what my therapist used to say. Before Marcus convinced me I didn’t need therapy anymore.”

He continued organizing the evidence, explaining how each piece strengthened our case. I watched his hands move with practiced efficiency, transforming my nightmare into legal strategy. It was both comforting and surreal—the worst moments of my life reduced to exhibits and affidavits.

The case files lay scattered across the coffee table, the graphic photos of bruises making me look away. Damian gathered them quickly.

“The judge will see these,” Damian said. “You don’t have to keep looking.”

“Do you know what the worst part was?” I asked suddenly. “Not the control or even the violence. It was how he’d switch between being this… this pseudo father figure one minute and something else the next.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “He’d give me advice about my career, help me with taxes, teach me about wine—all these things my dad should have done. And then he’d…”

My voice faded. Damian waited, giving me space.

“I think I stayed so long because I kept hoping the nurturing part of him was real,” I finally whispered. “That maybe if I was good enough, perfect enough, he’d just be that and nothing else.”

Damian’s face softened. “Children aren’t supposed to earn their parents’ love, Alex. And partners aren’t supposed to be parents.”

“Yeah, well.” I attempted a smile. “I also missed that memo growing up.”

After two hours, Damian closed the last folder. “I think we have everything we need for the initial filing. The protective order is already in place, but this gives us the foundation for the civil suit and potential criminal charges.”

“Will it be enough?” I asked.

“It’s compelling evidence,” he said carefully. “But I won’t lie to you, Alex. Cases like this are difficult, even with extensive documentation. Mr. Delaney has resources and connections that will complicate matters.”

I nodded, unsurprised. Marcus had always made it clear that the rules didn’t apply to men like him.

“Where are you staying tonight? Damian asked, the question seemingly casual as he organized the files.

“I found a place,” I said vaguely.

His eyes flicked up to mine. “A nearby hotel?”

I looked away. “No. Somewhere… more affordable.”

“Alex.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Ineed to know where to reach you. For case updates.”

“I’ll keep my phone on,” I said, still not meeting his gaze.

Damian studied me for a long moment. “The firm can cover secure accommodation as part of our representation. It’s standard practice in high-risk cases.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted. “I’ve managed this long. I don’t need your help, I’ll take care of myself.”

He didn’t push. “Call if you need anything. Day or night.”

I nodded, gathering my backpack—still the only possession I had besides the clothes on my back. As I left, I felt Damian’s eyes on me, concern radiating from him like heat.

I didn’t tell him I was down to my last sixty dollars, or that the “affordable” place was a motel in a neighbourhood where I’d already been approached by drug dealers twice. I’d lived with Marcus’s control for three years. I wasn’t about to trade one form of dependency for another.

Even if Damian Richards seemed nothing like Marcus at all.

MY PHONE RANGat 9:47 that night. I was huddled on the sagging mattress of the Parkview Motel, sketching furiously in the notebook I’d bought from a nearby Dollarama—the only luxury I’d allowed myself with the remainder of my meagre funds. Drawing had always been my escape, the one thing Marcus couldn’t completely take from me.

The caller ID showed Damian’s number. I hesitated before answering.

“Hello?”

“Alex, it’s Damian Richards.” His voice was clear, professional. “I apologize for calling so late, but I wanted to update you on the case filing.”

“That’s okay,” I said, pulling my knees to my chest. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

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