His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“Your living situation,” I clarified quickly, though that wasn’t all I’d meant. “Once we secure the judgment, you’ll have options. You could return to your own place, find a new apartment, perhaps even restart your career.”
“Oh.” Something flickered across his face—disappointment? Relief? I couldn’t tell. “Right. Of course.”
“Alex, about this morning—”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he interrupted, setting his mug down with a sharp click. “It was just… biology. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I wasn’t embarrassed,” I said quietly. “I was concerned about you.”
He finally met my gaze directly, something unreadable in his expression. “I’m not as fragile as you think, Damian.”
“I know you’re not fragile. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” The words came out more intensely than I’d intended. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you.”
The kitchen fell silent except for Buster’s purring as he wound between our legs. The tension between us had shifted, no longer just embarrassment but something deeper, more complex.
“Monday,” Alex finally said. “We’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Damian
“LET’S GOthrough the financial impact statements once more,” I said, spreading the documents across the conference room table.
Alex sat beside me, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of my own shampoo in his hair. Sandra and Mitchell sat across from us, Mitchell eagerly flipping through his colour-coded notes while Sandra studied us with that penetrating gaze that had intimidated associates and partners alike for fifteen years.
“These gallery estimates suggest Alex could have earned upwards of $300,000 over the three years Marcus kept him isolated,” Mitchell said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “That’s conservative, considering the trajectory before Marcus interfered.”
Alex shifted uncomfortably. “It feels like I’m claiming money for paintings I never created.”
“You never created them because Marcus deliberately sabotaged your career,” I said, my hand moving instinctively toward his before I caught myself and redirected it to straighten a stack of papers instead. “That’s exactly what we’re compensating.”
Sandra’s eyebrow arched slightly, her gaze flicking between my hand and Alex’s face. I pretended not to notice.
“I’ve prepared a timeline of the career interference,” she said, sliding a document forward. “Including the cease-and-desist letters Marcus sent to galleries and the sudden withdrawal of your works from exhibition.”
Alex leaned forward to examine it, his shoulder brushing against mine. Neither of us pulled away.
“This is… thorough,” he said, voice tinged with wonder. “You found exhibitions I’d forgotten about.”
“Sandra leaves no stone unturned,” I said with pride.
“Some stones should perhaps remain unturned,” Sandra replied with pointed emphasis, giving me a look that could freeze boiling water.
Mitchell, oblivious to the subtext, continued enthusiastically. “I’ve prepared a separate brief on the psychological damages. The literature on recovery from intimate partner violence suggests therapy costs for at least five years, possibly longer.”
“Five years?” Alex looked stricken.
“It’s not a prison sentence,” I said softly. “It’s ensuring you have resources for healing on your own timeline.”
Our eyes met, and something passed between us—understanding, connection, perhaps more. Sandra cleared her throat loudly.
“Mitchell, why don’t you and Alex review the psychological assessment report? I need a word with Damian about the Justice Sommers brief.”
As they left for Mitchell’s office, Sandra closed the conference room door with deliberate care.
“You’re playing with fire,” she said without preamble.
