Page 68 of Client Privilege

I turned the shower on, letting steam fill the room while I stripped off yesterday’s clothes. As the water pounded against the tiles, memories from last night replayed in fragmented flashes.

Marcus’s face, contorted with rage. His fingers digging into my throat. The weight of his body pinning me down. The crack in his voice when he realized he was being arrested. The police pulling him away.

And Damian. Damian appearing in the doorway like some avenging angel. Damian’s arms around me, solid and secure. Damian carrying me when my legs wouldn’t work anymore. Damian staying with me until I fell asleep.

I stepped under the hot spray, letting it wash over my face, myshoulders, my back. The water pressure was perfect, the temperature exactly right. Of course it was. Everything in Damian’s world seemed perfect.

What had I been thinking, clinging to him like that? He was my lawyer, not my… not my anything else. He’d been professional, compassionate. And I’d been pathetic, clutching at his shirt, soaking it with tears, begging him not to leave me alone.

Heat rushed to my face that had nothing to do with the shower. What must he think of me now? This broken, needy mess who couldn’t even get through one night without falling apart.

I grabbed the shampoo—something expensive and subtle that smelled like cedar—and worked it through my hair roughly, as if I could scrub away the memories along with the grime.

The truth was, I’d been developing feelings for Damian almost since we’d met. How could I not? He was everything Marcus wasn’t—steady, respectful, genuinely kind. From that first day in his office when he’d listened without judgment, believed me without question, I’d felt something shift inside me. Not just gratitude, though there was plenty of that, but something deeper I wasn’t ready to name.

It wasn’t just his confidence in court or the way he’d dismantled Marcus’s lies with surgical precision. It was the smaller moments—how he’d notice when I was overwhelmed and find a reason to take a break without making me ask. How he’d leave coffee on the conference table without comment when I’d been up all night with nightmares. The way he maintained a careful distance, never crowding me, yet somehow always positioned himself between me and potential threats.

I’d caught myself watching his hands during meetings—strong, masculine fingers moving across legal documents, gesturing as he explained complex legal concepts in terms I could understand. I’d found myself memorizing the rare sound of his genuine laugh, wondering what it would be like to be the cause of it more often.

These feelings terrified me almost as much as they comforted me. After Marcus, I’d sworn I would never again let myself be vulnerable with someone who held power over me. And Damian held so much power—not just as my lawyer, but as the person who knew every broken piece of my story. The person whose opinion of me somehow mattered more than it should.

But I’d buried those feelings deep, locked them away where they couldn’t complicate things. Damian was my lawyer. My only hope for justice. My feelings were irrelevant, inappropriate, unwelcome.

And now I’d spent the night pressed against his chest, holding onto him like he was the only solid thing in a crumbling world. I’d exposed myself completely—not just my weakness and fear, but the raw, desperate need I’d been trying so hard to hide.

I finished washing and turned off the shower, stepping out onto the heated floor. The mirror was fogged with steam, but I wiped a clear patch with my hand and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Angry purple bruises circled my throat where Marcus’s fingers had dug in. More bruises bloomed across my jaw and cheekbone. I looked like I’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion.

I touched the marks gingerly, wincing. Physical evidence. That’s what Damian would call them. Proof. I called them something else—a reminder that Marcus could still hurt me, even after everything.

The bathrobe was soft against my skin as I pulled it on. I dug through my duffel bag that Sandra had rescued from the motel, finding clean underwear and my least worn t-shirt and jeans. The clothes hung loose on my frame—I’d lost more weight in the past weeks than I’d realized.

I couldn’t hide up here forever. Damian was waiting. We had things to discuss, plans to make. Marcus might be in custody, but he wouldn’t stay there. He’d find a way out, just like he always did.

Taking a deep breath, I headed downstairs to face whatever came next.

The smell hit me first—coffee, bacon, something sweet baking. I followed my nose to a kitchen that looked like something from a design magazine. Damian stood at the stove, dressed casually in jeans and a soft-looking sweater, flipping what appeared to be blueberry pancakes.

He looked up when I entered, his expression carefully neutral. “Perfect timing. Coffee?”

“Please,” I said, my voice rougher than I expected.

He poured a mug and slid it across the island toward me, along with cream and sugar. I took a grateful sip.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, plating pancakes and bacon.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it—harsh and bitter. “I don’t even know how to answer that.”

“Fair enough,” he said, setting a plate in front of me. “Hungry?”

I wasn’t, not really, but the effort he’d gone to meant something. “Thank you,” I said, picking up a fork.

He sat across from me with his own plate, watching me with concern. “The bruising looks painful.”

My hand went automatically to my throat. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he said quietly. “None of this is fine, Alex.”

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