Page 52 of Client Privilege

“Unless you have witnesses to corroborate this alleged statement, Mr. Richards, I can’t take action based on your client’s claim.” Patterson’s tone was dismissive. “This court deals in evidence, not hearsay.”

“With respect, Your Honour, there’s a pattern of intimidation here that—”

“Enough.” Patterson’s expression hardened. “I’ve made my ruling. If you have concerns about the no-contact order, file the appropriate motions. I’m not going to micromanage what happens in passing in my courtroom.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “And Mr. Richards, I’ll remind you that domestic disagreements in same-sex relationships are not my particular concern. The law requires me to hear this case, not to adjudicate personal conflicts between consenting adults.”

The judge’s mask of impartiality slipped, revealing the prejudice beneath. He disappeared into his chambers without another word.

Damian stood rigid with fury, his knuckles white around his briefcase handle.

“Did he just—” Mitchell began, shocked.

“Yes, he did,” Damian cut him off. “And it’s going on the record for our appeal, if it comes to that.”

Marcus and Blackwood were already gone, the courtroom nearly empty now. I remained frozen in my chair, Marcus’s words echoing in my head. See you soon, puppy. Not a threat—a promise.

“We need to go,” Damian said finally, his voice tight with controlled rage. “Mitchell, bring the car around. We’re not using the main exit.”

As we gathered our things, I felt hollowed out, exhausted beyond words. Despite the photographs, despite my testimony, despite the nurse’s professional assessment—nothing had changed. Marcus still had power. The judge still saw me as the problem.

“He’s going to find me,” I whispered as Damian guided me toward a service elevator. “He always does.”

Damian’s hand on my shoulder tightened. “Not this time,” he said, but for the first time since I’d met him, uncertainty shadowed his voice.

We stepped into the elevator, the doors closing on the empty courtroom behind us. I leaned against the wall, suddenly struggling to breathe. Everything I’d endured today—exposing my most private pain, enduring Blackwood’s vicious implications, seeing those photographs—and for what? For a judge who didn’t care, who saw my abuse as a “domestic disagreement”?

As the elevator descended, Damian’s fury was palpable in the confined space. But beneath his anger, I sensed something else—the first flicker of doubt about whether the system he’d dedicated his life to would actually deliver justice.

The elevator reached the basement level with a soft chime. As the doors opened to a dimly lit service corridor, I realized we were both lost—me in my fear, Damian in his shaken faith—with no clear path forward.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Alex

I WOKEbefore dawn in my motel room, my mind already racing with dread. Today Marcus would present his version of reality—the carefully constructed fiction he’d been perfecting for years. I’d spent the night tossing on the lumpy mattress, haunted by memories of Marcus’s ability to charm anyone into believing whatever he wanted them to believe.

When I arrived at the courthouse, I found Damian waiting in a small conference room, suit jacket draped over a chair, sleeves rolled up as he reviewed documents.

“There’s coffee,” he said without looking up. “Sandra brought pastries too.”

I poured myself a cup, noticing the dark circles under Damian’s eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Enough.” He finally glanced up, his expression softening slightly. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ve been better.” I attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. “What should I expect today?”

Damian sighed, pushing aside his papers. “Character witnesses, mostly. Blackwood will parade people who’ll testify to Marcus’ssterling reputation and philanthropic work.”

“And they’ll make me sound unstable,” I added quietly.

“Probably.” Damian didn’t sugarcoat it. “But remember, their opinions aren’t evidence. The medical records, the photographs—those are facts.”

I nodded, though we both knew facts didn’t always matter as much as they should.

The courtroom felt colder today. I sat beside Damian, watching the door as Marcus entered with Blackwood. Unlike yesterday when he’d maintained a concerned expression, today Marcus allowed himself a small, confident smile as he nodded to several people in the gallery.

Judge Patterson called the court to order, his gaze sweeping over us with the same thinly veiled disdain I’d noticed yesterday.

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