Page 6 of Client Privilege

“Doubtful. Going against someone like Delaney—”

“Is exactly why you should do it.” I lowered my voice. “You come from old money, Damian. You’re always saying you’re different from them—the ones who think wealth puts them above the law. Prove it.”

The silence stretched between us.

“You fight dirty, Natalie.”

“I fight for people who need it.” I softened my tone. “Just meet with him. That’s all I’m asking.”

Another long pause.

“Fine. One meeting. I’ll text you some times tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I breathed.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. “I haven’t agreed to anything beyond that.”

After we hung up, I sat motionless, staring at the wall. I’d done what I could. Now it was up to Damian—and Alex—to do the rest.

“Mommy! Daddy says dinner’s ready!”

I forced a smile onto my face. “Coming, sweetheart.”

As I pulled on my robe, I sent up a silent prayer that somewhere, Alex Lajeunesse was safe tonight.

CHAPTER TWO

Damian

THE AUTUMNmorning light spilled through the tall windows of my bedroom, painting golden rectangles across the hardwood floor. I blinked awake at precisely 5:29 a.m., one minute before my alarm was set to go off. I always woke this way—my internal clock more reliable than any device. Reaching over, I silenced the alarm before it could sound.

My morning routine never varied. Thirty minutes of cardio on the treadmill in my home gym. Fifteen minutes of weights. Shower, exactly seven minutes. Coffee, black, brewed to the perfect temperature in the programmable machine that started at 6:15 a.m. daily.

I stood in my kitchen—all gleaming stainless steel and white marble—watching the coffee drip into my mug. Outside, the manicured grounds of my Rosedale estate were shrouded in early morning mist. The gardener would be here tomorrow to trim the hedges that lined the stone path leading to my front door.

This house had been my first major purchase after making partner. A Victorian mansion from the 1870s that I’d spent two years meticulously restoring to its former glory. Crown mouldings, original hardwood floors, stained glass transoms above the doorways—all preserved withpainstaking attention to historical accuracy.

And yet, as I moved through the grand foyer toward my study, my footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty space. For all its historical character and perfect restoration, the house felt more like a museum than a home.

I picked up my briefcase—Italian leather, a gift to myself after winning the Harrington merger case—and did a final check of my appearance in the antique mirror that hung in the entryway. Charcoal grey suit, crisp white shirt, burgundy tie. Not a thread out of place. At forty-three, I still maintained the same disciplined physique I’d had in my thirties, though the faint lines around my eyes told a different story.

“Perfect,” I muttered to my reflection, though the word felt hollow.

The drive to my firm’s offices in the financial district took exactly seventeen minutes at this hour. I pulled my Aston Martin into my reserved parking space at 7:02 a.m., fifteen minutes before my first meeting.

“Good morning, Mr. Richards,” the security guard said as I passed through the lobby.

I nodded in acknowledgement but didn’t break stride. The elevator whisked me to the forty-second floor, where Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery occupied the entire space. My name on the letterhead, my corner office waiting.

“Morning, Damian,” my assistant Sandra called as I passed her desk. “The Westbrook files are on your desk, and the strategy meeting for the Halston acquisition is at eight.”

“Thank you, Sandra. Coffee?”

“Already ordered. Should be here in five.”

I settled at my desk, opening my laptop and scanning through the seventy-three emails that had accumulated overnight. By the time my coffee arrived, I’d answered twenty-eight of them and flagged twelvefor follow-up.

The morning passed in a blur of meetings, conference calls, and document reviews. I barely noticed when Sandra placed a sandwich on my desk at 1:15 p.m.

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