Page 34 of Client Privilege

My heart skipped a beat. “Different how?”

Sandra tilted her head, considering her words carefully. “He’s more… present. More invested. When you’re speaking, he listens differently.” She shrugged. “I’ve never seen him cancel meetings with senior partners to prepare a case personally. Or spend evenings reviewing files he could easily delegate.”

I felt my face grow warmer, and I looked down at my tea to hide my reaction. It was ridiculous to feel this flutter in my stomach at her words. Damian was my lawyer—nothing more, nothing less. Yet I couldn’t deny the way my pulse quickened when he entered a room, or how I found myself noticing details about him: the precise way he folded his cuffs when working late, the rare smile that transformed his serious face, the strength in his hands as they organized documents.

“He’s just being thorough,” I managed, trying to sound casual. “It’s a complicated case.”

Sandra’s knowing look told me she wasn’t convinced. “Of course,” she agreed, her tone suggesting anything but agreement. “Just like he’s ‘just being thorough’ when he asks me how you’re doing every morning before asking about anything else.”

I glanced across the room at Damian, who was deep in conversation with Mitchell. In another life—one where I wasn’t broken and fighting for my freedom, one where he wasn’t my lawyer—I might have allowed myself to acknowledge how attractive he was. The sharp intelligence in his eyes, the quiet confidence in his movements, the unexpected gentleness that occasionally slipped through his professional demeanour.

But this wasn’t another life. This was my reality, and in my reality,such thoughts were dangerous distractions I couldn’t afford.

Her confidence was so absolute that I almost believed her. Almost.

Mitchell bounded over, tablet in hand. “I’ve mapped out the most likely cross-examination questions Edward Blackwood will ask,” he said, showing me a detailed flowchart. “If we prepare for the worst, anything less will feel easy.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I asked, but found myself smiling slightly at his earnestness.

“Well, yeah,” he replied, confused. Then his face brightened. “Oh! I almost forgot. I brought something for you.” He rummaged in his messenger bag and pulled out a small sketchbook and a set of pencils. “Sandra mentioned you’re an artist. I thought maybe drawing might help when things get overwhelming.”

The unexpected kindness caught me off guard. I took the sketchbook, running my fingers over its blank pages. “Thank you,” I said, my voice thick.

“It’s nothing fancy,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. “Just thought it might help.”

Damian watched this exchange with an expression I couldn’t quite read before clearing his throat. “Let’s walk through the timeline once more.”

The day progressed in a blur of preparation. Damian was relentless but patient, guiding me through potential scenarios, helping me frame my experiences in ways the court would understand. When I stumbled over particularly painful memories, he’d pause, giving me space without making me feel weak.

Sandra kept us fed and focused, while Mitchell’s optimism provided welcome relief from the gravity of what we were preparing for. By late afternoon, I found myself sketching absently in the book Mitchell had given me—just quick studies of hands, the coffee cup, Sandra’s glasses on the table—but the familiar motion of pencil on paper steadied mynerves.

“That’s really good,” Mitchell said, peering over my shoulder at a sketch of Damian’s profile as he read documents.

I closed the book quickly. “Just a habit.”

“Your art is evidence of your talent, Alex,” Damian said without looking up from his papers. “Don’t diminish it.”

The simple statement hit me harder than expected. How long had it been since someone had valued my work without attaching conditions?

Hours passed. The sunlight shifted across the conference room, casting long shadows before fading entirely. I was deep in reviewing photographic evidence when I realized the office had grown quiet. Most of the staff had gone home.

“What time is it?” I asked, stretching my stiff shoulders.

Damian glanced at his watch and looked surprised. “Nearly nine.”

“Nine?” I blinked at the darkened windows. “We’ve been at this all day.”

“Time flies when you’re preparing for court,” Mitchell said cheerfully, though he looked exhausted.

Sandra appeared at the door. “I’m heading out. Mitchell, didn’t you have that dinner with your girlfriend’s parents tonight?”

Mitchell’s face went pale. “That was at seven. Oh god.” He scrambled for his phone. “She’s going to kill me.”

“Go,” Damian said. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Mitchell gathered his things in a panic, thanking Damian profusely while texting apologies. Sandra followed him out after giving me an encouraging smile.

Suddenly, it was just Damian and me in the vast conference room. The silence felt heavy after the day’s intensity.

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