Page 75 of Client Privilege

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice quieted, almost hesitant. “I meant… with us. After I’m not your client anymore. Will you still want to be in my life?”

I leaned back in my chair, uncertain of his meaning. Was he worried about losing legal protection? Concerned about our friendship? Or was there something more beneath his question—something that echoed my own carefully suppressed thoughts?

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” I said carefully. “One step at a time. Let’s win this case first.”

The silence that followed felt weighted with unspoken words. Whatever he’d been asking, whatever answer he’d hoped for, remained suspended in the space between our phones—another uncertainty in a situation already filled with them.

“Right,” he finally said. “Of course.”

By late afternoon, our motion was filed and the waiting began. I buried myself in preparation, building our case stronger than before. At 4:47 PM, Sandra knocked and entered without waiting for a response.

“It’s official,” she announced, her usual composure slipping to reveal a rare smile. “Justice Sommers has been assigned to our case.”

I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. “When’s the hearing?”

“Monday at 9 AM. Blackwood’s office already called to strongly complain about the assignment.”

I could imagine Edward Blackwood’s frustration. Justice Sommers was known for her impartiality and attention to evidence—exactly what Marcus didn’t want.

“Let them complain. It won’t change anything.”

After Sandra left, I stood at my window overlooking the city. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Toronto’s skyline, turning glass towers into columns of fire. Somewhere in that urban sprawl,Marcus Delaney sat in a holding cell, his power temporarily contained. The thought should have felt like victory, but instead, I found myself thinking of Alex waiting in my home.

I pictured him there—perhaps sketching in that focused way he had, lower lip caught between his teeth, his fingers smudged with charcoal. Or maybe curled on the sofa with a book, his guard finally lowering enough to find moments of peace. The image stirred something in me I’d kept carefully locked away throughout my career. For years, I’d convinced myself that professional success was enough, that emotional entanglements were unnecessary complications. Yet now, I found myself rushing home rather than lingering at the office.

What unsettled me most wasn’t the attraction—I’d felt attraction before, though never as strongly as I did towards Alex—but the way it tangled with an unfamiliar tenderness. I wanted to protect Alex, yes, but increasingly I wanted more: to see him smile without fear shadowing his eyes, to watch his confidence return, to be the person he turned to not out of necessity but choice.

I straightened my tie, a reflexive gesture of control when my thoughts wandered into dangerous territory. The case wasn’t over. Professional boundaries existed for a reason. But as I gathered my briefcase to head home, I couldn’t deny that something fundamental had shifted. For the first time in my carefully ordered life, winning a case felt like only the beginning of something, not the end.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Alex

I SATcross-legged on the bed, sketchbook balanced on my knee, watching morning light filter through the tall windows of Damian’s guest room. After three days here, I still felt like an intruder in this elegant space with its crisp white linens and understated luxury. Nothing like the gilded cage Marcus had kept me in, but still far from anything I could call my own.

My pencil hovered over the blank page. I’d managed a few tentative sketches of the Toronto skyline yesterday, but they felt mechanical, disconnected from the way I used to draw—before Marcus had crushed that part of me.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

“Come in,” I called, quickly closing the sketchbook.

Damian appeared in the doorway, already dressed in a charcoal suit despite it being Saturday. “I’m heading to the office for a few hours. There’s coffee downstairs and I’ve left some cash on the counter if you need to order anything in.”

“Thanks. I’ll be fine.” I offered what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

He lingered, his gaze falling to the closed sketchbook. “That corner by the window gets excellent natural light. I never use it, but it mightbe good for your work.”

After he left, I found myself drawn to the corner he’d mentioned. A small reading nook with a window seat overlooked a maple tree in the backyard. The morning sun created a perfect pocket of warmth. I dragged the desk chair over, testing the light. He was right—it was perfect.

I spent the next hour rearranging the furniture, creating a makeshift studio space. The desk moved beneath the window, angled to catch the light. I lined up the few art supplies I’d managed to salvage from the motel—graphite pencils, a small set of charcoals, and the sketchbook Mitchell had given me.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than I’d had in months.

My phone buzzedwith a text fromSandra:

I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the keypad. The thought of someone buying art supplies for me brought back memories of Marcus—how each gift came with invisible strings, how each “generous” purchase became another way to control me.

“I’m fine, thanks,”I typed, then deleted it.

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