Page 24 of Client Privilege

I ARRIVED ATRichards, Blackwell & Montgomery thirty minutes early, unable to stand the confines of the motel room any longer. The receptionist—a different one from my first visit—directed me to a conference room on the fortieth floor.

Damian was already there, reviewing documents. He looked up when I entered, his expression shifting from professional concentration to something softer.

“Alex,” he said, standing. “How are you holding up?”

I must have looked terrible—I hadn’t slept, and the shower at the motel had been lukewarm at best.

“I’m fine,” I lied, the words automatic.

Damian didn’t call me on it. Instead, he gestured to a chair beside him, not across from him. A small detail, but it meant something—we were on the same side of the table.

“I’ve arranged for two security guards to be present,” he explained. “One by the door, one by the conference table. Marcus will be accompanied by his attorney, Edward Blackwood.”

“Blackwood?” I recognized the name. “As in Blackwood Investments?”

“Yes. I’ve learned he’s Marcus’s cousin. Old money, old connections.”

Of course. Marcus always kept things in the family—or rather, in his carefully curated circle of wealthy friends who owed him favours.

“What do I need to do?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Damian said firmly. “You don’t need to speak to him at all. I’ll handle the exchange. You’re here to verify that the items are yours, nothing more.”

I nodded, though we both knew it wasn’t that simple. Being in the same room as Marcus again—breathing the same air—would be like stepping back into a nightmare.

“If at any point you need to leave, just say the word,” Damian continued. “Or use this.” He slid a small object across the table. A panic button. “Press it, and security will escort him out immediately.”

I picked it up, turning it over in my palm. Such a small thing to hold such power.

“Thank you,” I said, slipping it into my pocket.

We spent the next twenty minutes reviewing what to expect. Damian was thorough, leaving nothing to chance. His attention to detail should have been reassuring, but all I could think about was seeing Marcus again. Would he look the same? Would he still wear that cologne I used to love and later came to dread? Would he still have that ability to makeme feel small with just a glance?

At precisely 2:00 PM, there was a knock at the door. I flinched, my hand automatically reaching for the panic button in my pocket.

Damian’s hand covered mine briefly. “Remember, you’re safe here.”

The door opened, and Marcus walked in.

He looked exactly the same—impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than six months’ rent at my old college apartment. His silver hair was perfectly styled, his posture confident. Behind him came a man who could only be Edward Blackwood, carrying a briefcase that matched his shoes.

But there was no cat carrier. No Buster.

Marcus’s eyes found mine immediately, his lips curving into that smile I knew too well—the one that never reached his eyes.

“Alex,” he said, my name like honey on his tongue. “You look thin, puppy. Are you eating properly?”

Before I could respond—not that I could have formed words—Damian stepped forward.

“Mr. Delaney, please refrain from addressing my client directly. As stipulated in the court order, this is a supervised exchange of possessions only, not a social call.”

Marcus’s smile didn’t falter as his gaze shifted to Damian. “Of course, Mr. Richards. Just concerned about Alex’s welfare. He’s always been prone to neglecting himself when upset.”

The casual way he positioned himself as the concerned partner made bile rise in my throat. Not so long ago, he’d broken two of my ribs.

“Where’s Buster?” I found my voice, ignoring Damian’s warning look.

Marcus turned back to me, his expression regretful. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid I have some distressing news. Buster seems to have… gotten out. I’ve been looking everywhere, put up posters, called all the shelters.”

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