Page 2 of Client Privilege

What followed was a blur of pain and terror. His weight pinning me down. The sound of my clothes tearing. My pleas turning to whimpers, then to silent tears as he forced himself on me, his breath hot against my neck, whispering how ungrateful I was, how lucky to have him when no one else would want such damaged goods.

I’d stopped fighting at some point. My body had gone limp, my mind floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching what was happening to the person below as if through thick glass.

When he’d finished, he’d stood up, straightened his clothes, and looked down at me with disgust.

“Clean yourself up. You’re pathetic.”

I must have passed out after he’d left. The next truly clear memory: the hospital ceiling, the buzzing light.

“Sir?” The nurse again. “Can you tell me what happened to you?”

I’d tried to speak, but my throat closed around the words.

“Was it a mugging?” she’d prompted gently. “Or… did someone you know do this to you?”

Her eyes had held knowledge. She’d seen injuries like mine before. Knew what they meant.

Still, I couldn’t speak. Marcus had friends everywhere—doctors, police officers, judges. Who would believe me over him?

“I fell,” I’d finally whispered through broken lips.

The nurse’s eyes had filled with resignation. “I see.”

Another nurse had appeared in the doorway. “Is he awake? His partner’s here—very concerned. Says he’s been missing for hours.”

The first nurse had given me a long look. “Do you want to see him?”

The terror must have shown on my face because she’d nodded slightly.

“Tell him the patient is sedated and can’t have visitors until morning,” she’d told her colleague quietly. Then, turning back to me: “You have until morning to decide what you want to do.”

I’d closed my eyes, tears leaking from the corners.

In short order, I’d scraped together enough courage to slip out of the hospital. No discharge papers, no follow-up appointment. Just bare feet on cold tile as I’d escaped in hospital scrubs, clutching a paper bag with my ruined clothes.

With no phone, no wallet, and nowhere to go, I’d done the one thing I never thought I would—I’d called Professor Claude Mercier from a payphone outside the hospital, using the loose change a sympathetic orderly had slipped me. My first-year art professor from Montreal, the one who’d seen something in my work when no one else had. The one who’d recommended me for the gallery internship where I’d met Marcus.

“Alex?” His voice had been thick with sleep but instantly alert. “It’s the middle of the night. Are you alright?”

“Professor Mercier,” I’d whispered, my voice breaking. “I need help. Please.”

That was all it had taken. He’d driven from Montreal to Toronto that same night, found me huddled in a 24-hour diner near the hospital, still in those thin hospital scrubs.

“My God, Alex,” he’d said when he saw me, his face pale with shock. “What happened to you?”

I couldn’t tell him everything. Couldn’t form the words. But he’d understood enough.

“Mr. Lajeunesse?”

I blinked. The waiting room slowly came back into focus. A young woman stood in front of me, clipboard in hand, eyes concerned.

“Mr. Lajeunesse? Are you alright?”

My heart was racing so fast I could barely breathe. Sweat had soaked through my borrowed shirt, and I realized I was gripping the chair’s armrests so tightly my knuckles had gone white.

“I—yes.” My voice sounded strange, distant. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I’m Natalie Wong. I’ll be handling your case today.”

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