I wasn’t ready. Would never be ready. But I nodded anyway.
“Remember,” Mitchell said as we walked toward the elevators, “just answer exactly what’s asked. Don’t volunteer additional information to Blackwood. And if you need a moment—”
“I can ask for it,” I finished. We’d been over this dozens of times.
The courtroom seemed smaller when we returned, more suffocating. I took my seat beside Damian, acutely aware of Marcus’s presence across the aisle. I kept my eyes fixed on the empty witness stand.
After the final witness finished testifying about the 911 call, Judge Patterson turned to Damian. “Call your next witness, Mr. Richards.”
Damian stood. “The plaintiff calls Alex Lajeunesse.”
My legs felt disconnected from my body as I walked to the witness stand. The bailiff approached with a Bible.
“Do you swear that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.” My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.
I sat, the wooden chair hard beneath me. The courtroom stretched before me—faces turned toward mine, expressions ranging from sympathy to skepticism. Marcus sat perfectly still, his eyes never leaving me.
Damian approached, his presence reassuring. “Alex, how did you first meet Marcus Delaney?”
I cleared my throat. “At a gallery opening. I was working as an assistant curator at the Gardiner Gallery. He attended our emerging artists exhibition which I had co-curated.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“He was… charming. Knowledgeable about art. He seemed genuinely interested in my perspective on the exhibition.”
“How did your relationship progress from that initial meeting?”
I traced the pattern in the wooden railing with my fingertip. “He started visiting the gallery regularly. Always when I was working. He’d bring coffee, ask about my art, my background. He seemed… safe. Interested in my career.”
“When did the relationship become romantic?”
“About three months after we met. He invited me to dinner atCanoe—this exclusive restaurant I could never have afforded. I was flattered by his attention.”
“How would you describe the early stages of your romantic relationship?”
“It was overwhelming, in a good way—at first. He was attentive, generous. He’d listen to me talk about art for hours. No one had ever taken me that seriously before.”
Damian nodded. “When did things begin to change?”
I swallowed hard. “It was gradual. Small things at first. He’d make suggestions about my clothes—that certain colours suited me better, that my style should reflect my artistic sensibility. He’d recommend I cancel plans with friends because I seemed tired and needed rest.”
“Did these suggestions ever become demands?”
“Yes. About six months in, after I’d moved into his apartment, the suggestions became… expectations. He’d lay out clothes for me in the morning. He’d answer my phone, screen my calls. He said he was protecting me from distractions.”
“What happened to your employment at the gallery?”
“Marcus convinced me to quit. Said I was wasting my talent working for someone else when I should be focusing on my art. He promised to support me financially, to introduce me to important collectors.”
“And did he?”
“At first. He arranged a small exhibition. But afterwards, he became the gatekeeper for all my professional contacts. Eventually, I wasn’t allowed to attend my own openings without him. He’d tell people I was fragile, prone to anxiety in crowds.”
“What about your financial independence?”
“It disappeared completely. He added me to his accounts but kept control of all the cards, all the passwords. He’d give me cash for specific purchases and check the receipts. Said it was to help me budget, since artists aren’t good with practical matters.”
