Page 10 of Client Privilege

The elevator climbed swiftly, my stomach dropping with each acceleration. When the doors slid open, we stepped into another world.

The reception area of Richards, Blackwell & Montgomery stretched before us in cool blues and greys. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of Toronto’s skyline. Fresh flower arrangements sat on glass tables beside leather chairs that probably cost more than a month’s rent in my old apartment. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and money.

A woman behind a curved desk looked up as we approached. Her smile was professional, her eyes quickly taking my measure.

“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

“Alex Lajeunesse for Mr. Richards,” Natalie answered before I could speak. “I’m Natalie Wong, from the public defender’s office. We have an appointment at three.”

“Of course, Ms. Wong.” The receptionist’s demeanour warmed slightly at Natalie’s professional title. “Mr. Richards is still in a meeting. Please have a seat. Would you care for coffee? Water?”

“Water would be nice. Thank you,” I managed to say.

She gestured toward the seating area. “Someone will bring it right over.”

I chose a chair near the window, perching on its edge rather thansinking into the buttery leather. My backpack stayed on my lap, arms wrapped around it like a shield. Natalie sat beside me, close but not touching.

“You’re doing great,” she said quietly. “Just breathe.”

“I shouldn’t be here.” I glanced around at the opulent surroundings. “This is his world. People like this—they stick together.”

“Not Damian.” Natalie’s voice was firm. “His family has money, yes, but he’s always been… different. He understands what it means to use privilege responsibly.”

As Natalie spoke confidently about Damian, I studied her face. I wanted to believe her—God, how I wanted to believe someone could help me. But Marcus had friends everywhere. Powerful friends who’d smiled at me at gallery openings, called me “talented,” only to later ignore my desperate emails when I needed references after leaving him.

“How do you know?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “How do you know he won’t just… call Marcus after we leave?”

Natalie’s expression softened. “Because I’ve known Damian for fifteen years. Because he has principles that matter more to him than connections or money.”

I nodded, not convinced but desperate enough to pretend. I’d gotten good at that—nodding along, agreeing outwardly while my mind calculated escape routes. It was how I’d survived the last year with Marcus. It was how I’d finally gotten out.

“He’s going to ask you questions,” Natalie continued. “Some of them might be difficult. He needs to understand exactly what happened to build your case.”

“If he takes my case.”

“He will.” Her confidence was unsettling. How could she be so sure?

A young man in a crisp white shirt appeared with a glass of water on a small tray. He set it on the table beside me with a quiet “Sir” thatnearly made me look over my shoulder for someone else.

“Thank you,” I murmured, waiting until he left before reaching for the glass.

As I shifted in the plush chair, my back muscles protested. Three weeks of sleeping contorted in my ancient Honda’s backseat had left me with a constant dull ache. My stomach growled softly—I’d rationed my last granola bar this morning, washing it down with tap water from the Tim Hortons bathroom. The receptionist’s perfume, probably subtle to everyone else, seemed overwhelming to my heightened senses.

I tried to focus on Natalie’s words, but my mind kept drifting to practical concerns. The parking meter I’d fed my last quarters into. The quarter tank of gas that needed to last until… when? Until this lawyer magically solved my problems? Until I found a job that Marcus couldn’t sabotage? Until I figured out how to disappear completely?

Other people moved through the reception area—lawyers with briefcases, clients in expensive clothes, assistants carrying tablets. Each of them walked with confidence, with purpose. None of them looked twice at the water glass I held with both hands to keep from spilling.

Marcus’s office had been like this. All glass and chrome and power. I’d felt small there too, grateful to be included in his world. That gratitude had been the first hook he’d sunk into me. The first of many.

Was I making the same mistake again? Trading one powerful man for another?

No. This was different. This was business. I was a client, not a… not whatever I’d been to Marcus. And I’d leave the moment it felt wrong. I knew the warning signs now.

My palms dampened the glass. I set it down carefully on a coaster, wiped my hands against my jeans. Breathed. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. The breathing exercise my therapist had taught me before Marcus convinced me therapy was a waste of money.

The receptionist’s phone buzzed. She spoke quietly, then looked up at us.

“Ms. Wong, Mr. Lajeunesse? Mr. Richards will see you now.”

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