“Both.” Another pause. “I have a client. Domestic abuse case, worst I’ve seen in years. The abuser is wealthy, connected—Marcus Delaney.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. Marcus Delaney. CEO of DelaneyEnterprises. Major player in Toronto real estate. Frequent donor to political campaigns. The kind of man who had judges and police chiefs on speed dial.
“The victim needs specialized representation I can’t provide with my resources,” Natalie continued. “He’s living in his car, for Christ’s sake.”
I entered my bedroom, setting my briefcase down by the door. “Natalie, I don’t do pro-bono domestic cases. I’m corporate—”
“Cut the bullshit, Damian. You were top of our class in criminal law.”
I sighed, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You know that was almost two decades ago.”
“Remember when we were twenty-two and drunk on cheap box wine in my dorm room?” Her voice softened with the memory. “You told me you went into law to make a difference. What happened to that guy?”
The question hit harder than it should have. I glanced around my perfectly appointed bedroom—the custom king-sized bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets, the antique armoire that had once belonged to a British duke, the abstract painting on the wall that had cost more than my first year’s salary as an associate.
“He grew up and got practical.”
“He got comfortable,” Natalie corrected, her voice sharp. “Listen, I know your firm takes on the occasional high-profile pro-bono case for the PR. This could be that case.”
“Doubtful. Going against someone like Delaney—”
“Is exactly why you should do it.” Her voice dropped lower. “You come from old money, Damian. You’re always saying you’re different from them—the ones who think wealth puts them above the law. Prove it.”
I closed my eyes, remembering conversations from our law school days. Late nights discussing justice and privilege. My passionatedeclarations about using my family’s connections to fight for those without them. The idealistic young man I’d been seemed like a stranger now.
“You fight dirty, Natalie.”
“I fight for people who need it.” Her tone softened. “Just meet with him. That’s all I’m asking.”
I stood, walking to the window that overlooked the back garden. In the moonlight, I could make out the shapes of the carefully tended rose bushes, the stone pathway that led to the small reflecting pool. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.
Taking on Marcus Delaney would upset that control. It would be messy, complicated, potentially damaging to my career. The smart move would be to refer Natalie to someone else. Someone who specialized in this kind of case. Someone with less to lose.
And yet.
“Fine. One meeting. I’ll text you some times tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” she breathed, relief evident in her voice.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I warned. “I haven’t agreed to anything beyond that.”
After we hung up, I stood at the window for a long time, looking out at my perfect garden, my perfect house, my perfect life.
Empty. All of it.
I loosened my tie completely, letting it hang around my neck as I moved to sit on the edge of my bed. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the central air system. Everything in perfect order—the Egyptian cotton sheets turned down precisely, the antique armoire gleaming in the soft light from the bedside lamp, the abstract painting on the wall that had cost more than my first year’s salary as an associate.
What kind of case was this, really? What evidence existed? What were the chances of success against someone with Delaney’s resources?What would taking it on mean for my career, my reputation, my carefully constructed life?
The practical part of my brain calculated the risks and benefits with cold precision. The conclusion was clear: this case was all risk, no reward.
And yet, something else—something I’d thought long buried—stirred uncomfortably. The memory of who I’d once wanted to be. The principles I’d once held dear. The promises I’d made to myself in law school about the kind of lawyer, the kind of man, I would become.
One meeting. That’s all I’d promised. One meeting, and then I could walk away with a clear conscience. Refer the case to someone else. Return to my ordered, controlled existence.
The thought should have been comforting.
It wasn’t.
