Page 83 of Client Privilege

“And these withdrawals—were they typical for Mr. Delaney’s spending patterns?”

“No. Mr. Delaney rarely withdraws cash, and never in such large amounts.”

Marcus’s lawyer objected repeatedly, but the damage was done. The financial evidence corroborated the recorded confession perfectly.

By late afternoon, Victoria had presented a mountain of evidence—medical records, police reports, the door from my motel room with Marcus’s fingerprints, the recording, and the bank records.

When court adjourned for the day, I felt drained but cautiously hopeful. In the hallway, Victoria pulled me aside.

“Tomorrow, the defence presents their case. Be prepared—they’ll call character witnesses, try to paint Marcus as a pillar of the community. It will be hard to hear.”

I nodded. “I’m ready.”

But as we left the courthouse, I spotted Marcus watching me from the top of the steps, his eyes cold despite his pleasant expression. Damian moved protectively closer.

“He can’t touch you,” he reminded me. “The protective order is still in effect.”

“He doesn’t need to touch me to hurt me,” I said quietly.

THE COURTROOM’S TENSIONfollowed us home like a shadow. I’d held myself together with sheer willpower during the proceedings, but as Damian closed his front door behind us, something inside me cracked.

“I can’t—” My voice broke. “I thought I was ready, but seeing him there, so confident, like none of this matters…”

Damian set his briefcase down. “Alex—”

“He’s going to find a way out of this. He always does.” My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “You don’t understand what he’s capable of.”

“I’ve seen exactly what he’s capable of,” Damian said quietly. “I found you at that motel.”

The memory hit me like a physical blow—Marcus’s hands around my throat, the door splintering, the wild look in his eyes. My knees buckled, and Damian caught me before I hit the floor.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, guiding me to the sofa. “Just breathe.”

I tried, but my lungs refused to cooperate. The room tilted sideways as panic swallowed me whole.

“Alex, look at me.” Damian knelt in front of me, his hands steady on my shoulders. “Count with me. Five things you can see.”

I forced my eyes to focus. “Your… your tie. The coffee table. That painting. The window. Your eyes.”

“Good. Four things you can touch.”

My fingers found purchase. “The sofa. My shirt. Your sleeve. The cushion.”

With each sense we catalogued, my breathing slowed. Damian stayed there, patient and solid, until the room stopped spinning.

“Sorry,” I whispered, embarrassed by my breakdown.

“Don’t apologize for being human.” He moved to sit beside me. “What you did today took extraordinary courage.”

I shook my head. “I fell apart the minute we got home.”

“Home,” Damian repeated softly.

The word hung between us. This wasn’t my home—it was a temporary sanctuary, a guest room in the house of the man who’d saved me. Yet somehow, in these few weeks, it had begun to feel like home in ways Marcus’s mansion never had.

“I meant your home,” I corrected, staring at my hands. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice had dropped to something barely above a whisper. “I like hearing you call it that.”

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