“I’ve completed the paperwork for the civil complaint. We’re seeking $2.4 million in damages for physical assault, emotional distress, and financial exploitation.”
“That seems… high,” I said uncertainly.
“It’s appropriate given the documented injuries and financial losses.” He paused. “How are you doing?”
The question caught me off guard—professional concern sliding into something more personal.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
“And your accommodations?”
I glanced around the dingy room with its water-stained ceiling and mysterious carpet stains. “Adequate.”
“Alex,” he said, his tone softening. “If you’re concerned about costs—”
“I’m managing,” I cut him off.
A brief silence followed. “The firm can provide an advance against anticipated settlement,” he said carefully. “It’s a standard arrangement in cases like yours, where the client has limited resources due to the defendant’s actions.”
Pride warred with practicality. Sixty dollars wouldn’t last long, even at the Parkview Motel.
“I appreciate the offer,” I said finally. “But I’d rather keep things… separate.”
“I understand,” Damian replied, though I suspected he didn’t. How could he? He probably had never had to choose between dinner and a safe place to sleep.
“Is there anything else you need tonight?” he asked.
What I needed was my cat back. My apartment. My life. Things no lawyer could immediately provide.
“No, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow for the hearing?”
“Yes. Ten o’clock. Try to get some rest.”
After we hung up, I stared at the phone. The concern in his voice seemed genuine, not the calculated sympathy Marcus had perfected. But I’d been wrong before. Catastrophically wrong.
Outside, someone shouted, followed by the sound of breaking glass. I moved away from the window, drawing my knees tighter to my chest.
Sixty dollars. Two, maybe three more nights here. Then what?
I turned back to my sketching, losing myself in the only world I could still control.
Damian
I STOODat my kitchen island, nursing a glass of scotch as I stared at the case files laid out before me. My spacious kitchen, with its marble counter-tops and professional-grade appliances, felt particularly empty that night.
The photographs of Alex’s injuries were arranged in chronological order, showcasing a stark visual timeline of escalating violence. Three years of abuse documented in bruises and fractures lay before me. The clinical reports couldn’t capture the fear I had seen in Alex’s eyes or how he flinched at unexpected movements.
As I took another sip, I felt the burn travel down my throat. I had represented dozens of corporate clients, negotiated billion-dollar deals, and faced off against some of the most aggressive opposingcounsel in the country. Yet nothing had affected me like these photographs.
The thought of Alex sleeping in a seedy motel—or worse, in his car—while Marcus Delaney enjoyed the comforts of his penthouse made my blood boil. The legal system was supposed to protect individuals like Alex, but it moved at a glacial pace while the wealthy and connected twisted it to their advantage.
My phone sat on the counter, Alex’s number now stored in my contacts. When I had called earlier under the pretext of providing case updates, the truth was more straightforward: I was worried. There was a stubborn pride in Alex’s voice when he rejected my offer of financial assistance that both frustrated and impressed me. After everything he had endured, he still fought to maintain his independence.
I gathered the files, setting aside the most graphic photographs first. I reassured myself that my reaction was normal—any decent human being would be affected by such evidence. My concern was professional, appropriate for an attorney representing a vulnerable client.
But as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, passing the empty guest room with its untouched bed and pristine bathroom, I couldn’t shake the image of Alex huddled somewhere unsafe, alone and afraid.
This case had become personal for me. I could no longer pretend otherwise.
