Page 37 of Client Privilege

In my bedroom, I loosened my tie and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The ethical dilemma was clear-cut. The Rules of Professional Conduct explicitly prohibited sexual relationships with clients where the representation involved the client’s domestic relations. Even without that specific prohibition, the power imbalance made any romantic overture on my part potentially exploitative.

Alex had been controlled and manipulated by Marcus for years. The last thing he needed was another powerful man in his life blurring professional boundaries.

I changed into sleep clothes and tried to focus on case preparations, but my mind kept returning to dinner. The way Alex’s eyes had lit up when talking about his art professor. How he’d ducked his headslightly when I complimented him. The moment of tension between us outside the restaurant that I’d deliberately broken before it could develop into something more.

My phone buzzed with a text message. I reached for it, half-expecting—hoping?—it might be Alex.

It was Sandra: “Final witness prep documents ready for tomorrow. They’ll be printed and on your desk first thing tomorrow morning.”

I texted back a quick thanks, then set the phone aside, oddly disappointed. What was happening to me? I’d built my career on maintaining professional distance, on making decisions based on precedent and logic rather than emotion. Now I was sitting in my bedroom at midnight, distracted by thoughts of a client’s smile.

This wasn’t just about the Rules of Professional Conduct. It was about what Alex needed. He deserved a lawyer who was focused entirely on winning his case, not one distracted by inappropriate feelings. He needed someone he could trust completely, without questioning motives or intentions.

I finished my scotch and set the glass aside. Tomorrow would be another gruelling day of preparation. I needed to establish clear boundaries—for his sake and mine.

But as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment when Alex laughed. How it felt like witnessing something rare and precious breaking through the surface after being submerged for too long.

I’d spent my career building walls between myself and my clients. It was what made me effective—my ability to remain objective, to see cases as legal puzzles rather than human dramas. Now those walls were crumbling, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to rebuild them.

Sleep eluded me as I wrestled with contradictory impulses. The lawyer in me knew exactly where the ethical lines were drawn. The man in me desperately wanted to cross them.

I thought of Justice Sommers’ words about the domestic violence victim she’d failed by following procedure too rigidly. “Sometimes the system protects the wrong people,” she’d said.

But this was different. The ethical rules around client relationships existed to protect vulnerable clients like Alex. Breaking them wouldn’t be an act of justice; it would be self-serving.

By the time dawn broke, I’d made my decision. I would continue representing Alex with every professional skill at my disposal. I would offer him safety, security, and the best legal defence possible. And I would keep my growing feelings firmly in check, at least until the case was resolved and I was no longer his lawyer.

After that… I couldn’t allow myself to think that far ahead. One day at a time. That was how Alex was surviving, and it was how I would handle these unexpected feelings.

I rose earlier than usual, showered, and dressed with particular care. As I knotted my tie, I rehearsed the conversation I planned to have with Alex about house rules and boundaries while he stayed with me. Clear expectations. Separate spaces. Professional distance.

The morning light streamed through my bedroom window, illuminating the empty half of my king-sized bed. For the first time in years, the sight made me feel something other than indifference.

I pushed the feeling aside and headed downstairs to make coffee, already reviewing case notes in my head. Today I would be Damian Richards, attorney at law. Nothing more, nothing less.

The rest would have to wait.

CHAPTER TEN

Damian

THE FORTY-SECONDfloor housed only two offices—mine and Lawrence Montgomery’s. As managing partner, Montgomery enjoyed the corner suite with its panoramic views of both the lake and the city skyline. I’d been summoned there after hours, the timing itself a message. Firm business conducted after the associates and support staff had left was rarely good news.

I knocked once, then entered without waiting for a response. Montgomery sat behind his imposing mahogany desk—larger than mine by precise design—surrounded by the trappings of power. The walls displayed framed photographs of him with prime ministers and CEOs, carefully arranged to be visible from any angle. Awards and recognition plaques occupied custom-built shelves, illuminated by recessed lighting.

“Damian.” Montgomery didn’t stand. “Close the door.”

I complied, then took a seat across from him without waiting to be invited. Small rebellions maintained the illusion that we were equals, though we both knew the executive committee held the real power.

“Lawrence.” I kept my voice neutral. “It’s rather late for a casual chat.”

He slid a folder across the polished surface. “The Halston acquisition. Remember that?”

“Of course.”

“Three point two million in billable hours.” He tapped the folder with a manicured finger. “That’s what your little crusade has cost this firm. So far.”

I didn’t touch the folder. “The Lajeunesse case is pro-bono. The firm approves a certain number of hours for—”

---