Page 9 of Client Privilege

I picked up my phone, intending to set an alarm for the morning. Instead, I found myself opening my call history, scrolling to Natalie’s number. My thumb hovered over the call button.

What was I doing? It was nearly midnight. This could wait until morning.

But the empty house pressed in around me, suddenly too quiet, too perfect, too lifeless. And somewhere out there was someone sleeping in their car, terrified of a man powerful enough to make that fear rational.

Before I could reconsider, I typed out a text. The response came almost immediately:

I set the phone down on the nightstand and lay back against the pillows, still fully dressed. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

And for the first time in just as long, that uncertainty felt almost like relief.

CHAPTER THREE

Alex

I ARRIVEDan hour early.

Couldn’t risk being late, not when this meeting might be my only chance. I’d barely slept in the cramped backseat of my car, jolting awake at every passing vehicle, every distant siren. By dawn, I’d given up trying, spending the morning in a Tim Hortons nursing a single coffee until I couldn’t justify taking up space any longer.

Now I stood across the street from the gleaming tower of glass and steel that housed Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery. People streamed in and out—men in tailored suits that probably cost more than everything I owned, women in sleek dresses and heels that clicked with purpose against the pavement. Each of them belonged here. Each of them had somewhere to be, someone to meet, a life that made sense.

I tugged at the sleeve of my button-down shirt—the nicest thing I owned, purchased from Value Village last night just for this meeting. It had seemed professional enough then. Now, the slightly frayed cuffs and faded blue colour felt like a neon sign announcing my poverty.

The crosswalk signal changed, and my feet moved forward while my mind screamed to run. But where would I go? Back to my car with its dwindling gas tank? Back to hiding in plain sight, waiting for Marcusto find me?

The revolving door swept me into a vast marble lobby. The temperature dropped several degrees, artificial cool air raising goosebumps on my arms. A security guard behind a polished desk looked up, his gaze sliding over me with practiced assessment. I felt his eyes linger on my worn shoes, my cheap backpack.

“Can I help you?” His tone was professional but wary.

“I—I have an appointment. With Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery.” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

“Name?”

“Alex Lajeunesse.”

He checked something on his computer screen, then nodded. “Forty-second floor. You’ll need to sign in.”

He pushed a digital tablet toward me. My hand shook slightly as I scrawled my signature. The guard handed me a visitor’s badge, which I clipped to my shirt with unsteady fingers.

“Elevators are to your right.”

I nodded my thanks and walked toward the bank of elevators, conscious of how my footsteps echoed against the marble.

“Alex!”

I turned to see Natalie hurrying across the lobby, her practical low heels clicking against the floor. Unlike the other polished professionals in the building, she wore a slightly rumpled blazer over dark jeans, her bag overflowing with papers. The sight of her—someone who knew my story, who believed me—made my shoulders drop an inch from where they’d been hovering near my ears.

“You made it,” she said, reaching me with a smile. She started to extend her hand, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I almost wasn’t,” I admitted as we stepped into an elevator.

Natalie pressed the button for the forty-second floor. “That’sunderstandable. But Damian is good people, Alex. I wouldn’t have brought you to him otherwise.”

I studied her face, searching for signs of deception. I’d become good at that—reading micro-expressions, the subtle tells that preceded Marcus’s mood shifts. But Natalie’s eyes held only earnest concern.

“You really trust him?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

She nodded. “We go back to law school. He’s… changed since then, gotten more corporate, but underneath all that expensive tailoring, he’s still the same guy who once spent three days straight helping me prepare for a mock trial when I had the flu.”

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