Page 48 of Client Privilege

“Were there consequences if you disobeyed his rules?”

My heart raced. “Yes. At first, he’d just be disappointed—say how I’d let him down after all he’d done for me. Later, he’d withdraw completely—not speak to me for days, sleep in the guest room. I’d be desperate to make things right.”

“Did the consequences ever become physical?”

I nodded, unable to speak for a moment.

“Please answer verbally for the record,” Judge Patterson instructed, his tone neutral.

“Yes,” I managed. “The first time was about a year in. I’d spoken to a former colleague at a gallery event without his permission. When we got home, he slapped me. Then immediately apologized, said he’d never do it again, that I’d just made him so crazy with jealousy.”

“But it wasn’t the last time, was it?”

“Objection, Your Honour,” Blackwood called out, rising to his feet. “Counsel is leading the witness.”

Judge Patterson considered for a moment before shaking his head. “Overruled. The question establishes a timeline relevant to the plaintiff’s claims. The witness may answer.”

“No. It became more frequent. More severe. He was always careful though—nothing that would show when I was dressed. Nothing that would raise questions.”

“Until the night of September 17th this year.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Yes. Until then.”

“Can you tell the court what happened that night?”

I took a deep breath. “I’d gone to a park near our apartment while Marcus was in meetings. I just wanted to sketch outdoors for an hour. A friend of his saw me there and mentioned it to him. When Marcus came home, he had my sketchbook. He was furious that I’d left without permission.”

My voice faltered. Damian waited patiently.

“He started with the usual—telling me how ungrateful I was, how I’d embarrassed him. Then he hit me. I fell against the coffee table, cut my arm. He dragged me up by my hair and…” I trailed off, the memories flooding back with sickening clarity.

“Take your time,” Damian said gently.

“He beat me with his belt. Said I needed discipline. When I tried to get away, he caught me in the bathroom. That’s when it got worse. He…” I swallowed hard. “He raped me. Said I belonged to him, that no one else would ever want damaged goods like me.”

The courtroom was completely silent.

“What happened after that?”

“I must have passed out. When I woke up, he was gone. I managed to call 911. The ambulance took me to Toronto General.”

“Why did you leave the hospital before completing your examination?”

“A nurse told me Marcus was there, demanding to see me. I knew if I saw him, if he apologized like all the times before, I’d go back. I couldn’t do it again. So I left in borrowed scrubs, no shoes, nothing.”

“Where did you go?”

“I called my former art professor from Montreal—Claude Mercier,” I said, the memory still raw. “He was the only person I could think of who Marcus might not immediately suspect. Marcus had sent him a cease and desist letter years ago when Claude tried to check on me after I dropped out of art school. He thought Claude would never risk his career by helping me.”

“And did he? Help you?”

I nodded. “He drove all the way from Montreal that night. Found me at a diner near the hospital. He gave me cash, helped me buy a cheap used car—the Honda I’m living in now, it’s actually registered in his name since I don’t have photo ID currently—and loaned me enough for temporary accommodation.” I swallowed hard. “He wanted me togo back to Montreal with him, where he could properly help me, but I knew that wasn’t safe. Marcus would look for me there eventually.”

“Have you stayed in contact with Professor Mercier?”

“Minimal contact. I message him occasionally, just to let him know I’m alive. He’s been worried.”

“But Mr. Delaney did find you, didn’t he?”

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