Fated to the Viking Lord

Chapter I: A Traffic Breakdown

Growing up, I never once thought that traffic would be the thing that caused me to break down. When I was a girl, I would watch Pride and Prejudice and cry at the romance. In my teenage fantasies, I always assumed that I would only ever have a breakdown if I was being left by the love of my life on a distant pier somewhere where he was going off to fight in an unknown conflict. Or that I was the queen of a foreign nation, and I was wracked with an impossible decision. It was always a fantasy.

Reality however, is very different.

I was sitting in my compact car, on Autoroute 10, leaving Montréal at half past noon on a Thursday. My tiny car - a sensible and reliable choice for a sensible and reliable woman - was crawling along the Jacques Cartier Bridge at a snail's pace as the afternoon traffic built up. My tears, on the other hand, were falling freely.

I had worked my entire life to get to where I was. And in an instant, it had all come crashing down.

I grew up in a small town south of Québec City. People there were poor, and education was not exactly a value that was transmitted from mother to daughter. Certainly not when I was growing up. But I never cared for what other people thought.

I worked hard in school. I loved academics, and classical music, and always dreamed of making it to the big city. I worked so hard in fact, that I earned myself a scholarship to study French literature and drama at the Université de Montréal. And after kissing my mom goodbye, and telling my dad that I'd see him at Christmas, I left for the metropolis of my homeland.

It was not long after graduating that I found myself going to law school. There were some joint programs that allowed you to get your MBA and law degree at the same time, and having a perpetual chip on my shoulder, I knew that was what was best for me.

So, that's what I did. I graduated at twenty-six years old with a law degree and an MBA, and immediately set my sights on becoming a big city hot-shot lawyer my parents would be proud of.

I was going to be Miss Lucille Lafontaine. I was no longer the little red-haired girl in rural Québec. I was going to do everything I wanted to do, and be someone important. Eventually, I was.

While both my sisters settled down and had families in suburbs outside of Québec City, I settled multi-million-dollar cases in Montréal. I came back to see my family at my parents farm every Christmas and Easter, but otherwise, was resigned to my job. It was a high paced lifestyle, and it suited my tastes richly. I was a career woman. I was going to stand up for women everywhere, and show the world that you CAN have it all. I was going to go to the opera, and the orchestra, and appreciate art, and do all the other things that a woman SHOULD be able to do.

For a while, I was living my dream as a successful, single woman.

Then I met Luke.

Luke was a partner at my firm's Ottawa office. He was a stodgy government type who had a ton of trial experience and every degree imaginable. He was not the best-looking man alive, with dark hair and a dad body, but he presented himself well enough. He was also twenty years older than me, and a legend around the courthouse.

I was enthralled. Despite only being in my late twenties, we were living together after a whirlwind romance. He did not want children. He did not even want to marry me. He said that as modern and successful people, we didn't need to define our relationship with a title. I believed him.

We had both thrown ourselves into our work. Luke eventually made senior partner, and got his name added into the name of the firm. We opened offices in Calgary, Ottawa, Montréal, Halifax and Vancouver, and even a satellite office in Milan, Italy to handle import deals.

Through it all, I became an experienced financial negotiator and a competitive trial litigant. I got better with every single deal. Sure, there were those who thought that I had merely slept my way to the top. But not one of them would say it to me in an open court if I was opposing counsel.

Luke and I lived in a condo in downtown Montréal, in a penthouse suite that we rarely used. We were as wedded to our jobs as we were to one another.

Still, I thought that I had it all. I had a collection of expensive art that I never looked at, and a grand piano that I never played, in my expensive and well decorated condo that I rarely visited.

I was now approaching 40, in a relationship with a man who was almost 60, and in the absolute pinnacle of my career. Until the Bouchard case.

Theoretically, Bouchard v. Bouchard was a simple divorce settlement. In reality, it was a divorce between two of the most powerful people in Québec. The family patriarch was the founder of the largest steel mill empire, transportation conglomerate and digital media firm in French-Canada. His net-worth was rumoured to be around $20 billion dollars.

His wife, who was leaving him after purported infidelity, was an Olympic gymnast and celebrated musician and songwriter. Not to mention, she was also an up-and-coming feminist icon, writing songs about her struggles with men. I even owned one or two of her albums.

I wanted to represent her. Luke insisted that we chase after her husband. And Luke always got what he wanted.

As the biggest firm in Québec, Monsieur Bouchard easily picked us to represent him in the divorce. As a star attorney and crack negotiator, I was picked to lead the counsel in the divorce proceedings.

We tried to resolve things amicably. We passed through a round of arbitration where both parties agreed to do nothing but disagree. Then we found ourselves at trial, in a courthouse in downtown Montréal that had more members of the media present than actual employees.

Monsieur Bouchard was adamant that his infidelity was merely a result of her secret lesbianism. That was an absurd argument, especially since the divorce was being initiated by his spouse who had caught him with another woman.

Madame Bouchard played her part beautifully. She articulated that she was a great woman, and had character witnesses to testify that she was a loving and dutiful member of the community who didn't deserve to be cheated on. It was a flawless argument that would certainly convince the trial judge to award a few of Monsieur Bouchard's billions to her side.

And that ladies and gentleman, was how we ruthlessly destroyed this one.

You see, the argument of infidelity is usually only valid if one member of the arrangement cheats. If both of the party's cheat, then you can divorce no problem, but there probably won't be any renumeration.

And that was my solution to this case.

I had never stopped to ask this woman if she was, in fact, a lesbian. I did not need to. I merely needed to bully and cajole her friends taking the stand to support their friend.

Usually, I naturally assume most billionaire men are scumbags who would say anything to a woman to get into their pants. I also naturally assume that when they accuse their blonde, celebrity wife of lesbian infidelity that caused them to also cheat, that they're full of shit. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that's a safe bet.

Still, it was my job to protect this scumbag. If I took his wife out in the process, so be it. That's what Luke wanted me to do, and as we've established, my partner always gets what he wants.

One of the character witnesses that she had lined up, had apparently had a few dalliances with Madame Bouchard just after they were married, and again just before the divorce. That was the way I was going to exploit this case.

Cross examination is Hell at the best of times. But I put this woman through the ringer. I outed her as a lesbian in front of a public court room. I outed Madame Bouchard in front of the court as bisexual. I had her describe cunnilingus to the judge. I played a wicked, sad song, and made this woman dance to my tune.

At the conclusion of my case, the judge happily approved the divorce. I think he was just ready to be done with this song and dance.

He chastised both parties for not resolving this in arbitration. He made no finding, and assumed no contest, in the awarding of compensation. She would get nothing. He would keep everything.

I publicly humiliated this woman, and her lover. I outed her as a bisexual in a court of law, and ruined her reputation. And she would get nothing.

It was all in a day's work, I told myself.

It is the nature of the adversarial system, I repeated.

Until the scumbag shook my hand.

"I just want to thank you for protecting my money," he told me, with a cheeky smile that only those insulated by privilege from their lesser subjects can muster.

I felt physically ill.

For the first time since I began my career as a high priced attorney, I regretted everything I had done.

I did my best to slink out of the courtroom.

I was doing my speed walk to my electric compact car in the underground parking. At least, I was walking as fast as one can in Dior heels and a Prada business suit, complete with pencil skirt.

I am certain that I looked like a wounded dog leaving a junkyard scrap with their tail between their legs. It was not that far removed from reality.

As I made my way out of the underground parking and into the crowded streets of Montréal, the tears started flowing from my eyes.

This was not Pride and Prejudice. I had just destroyed a woman publicly, to protect a billionaire. I wanted to run away to the big city to become a successful career woman that my parents and family would be proud of. Would they be proud of what I had done today?

Who the Hell was I?

If I was to answer that question, I would need wine. But I did not like drinking in public, and certainly did not want to do so in the early afternoon.

So, I called the office and told them I was not feeling well. My personal assistant took the note, and promised that she would give it to Luke when he was back in the office.

From the courthouse, it was only a 5-minute drive to my condo. I could have probably taken the metro, but I didn't want to scuff my expensive shoes.

Thankfully, the condo tower in which Luke and I resided had underground parking. I did not want any of the other dentists, accountants or doctors that lived in our building to see the thick streaks of mascara running down my face.

I made my way into the elevator, and pressed the button for the top floor. Travelling up 25 stories didn't take all that long, and I was grateful that nobody else got into the elevator with me.

Swiping my card to get access to my condo, I immediately noticed a pair of shoes on the mat I kept in our entryway that were out of place. They were clearly not mine. I didn't wear shoes that small.

I did not wear four-inch heels anymore. I certainly did not wear four-inch heels that looked like they cost only twenty bucks, either. I was pushing 40, and while I took time out to work on my appearance, I could certainly not pull that off.

Figuring Luke - who had never shown the slightest interest in my fashion choices - found something in the closet and just left it there thinking it was mine, I shrugged, and moved on, eager to drown my sorrows.

Taking off my own shoes, I walked into our kitchen to grab a bottle of wine.

That's when I saw it.

On one of the bar stools in the kitchen, there was a shirt. Luke's shirt. He never left his things laying around the house. And he certainly did not leave pink brassieres on the floor either. Certainly not A-cups. 40 years of life had taken its toll, and I myself wore a 44-DD.

Blood rushed to my face. It was a mix of embarrassed, and heart break. I needed confirmation, and rushed to the bedroom. The bedroom that I shared with Luke - my common law partner of nearly 15 years - and opened the door.

Luke was standing there in his boxers, buttoning down his plain white shirt. Sitting on the bed was a young woman I didn't recognize. Luke lectured at a college in the West Island, so perhaps she was a student. She could have been an intern as well. We had close to three hundred employees, and I think I knew fewer than half.

But rather than ask anything, I stood there, aghast. I was shell shocked.

Luke just stood there. He looked at me indignantly. Like the smug, pompous asshole that I defended today. He humiliated me, just like I humiliated another woman today. Because to these powerful men, we were just pawns. I got that now. Too little too late for Madame Bouchard. Just like it was now too late for me.

The young woman turned to look at me. Her perfect olive complexion, flat tummy, athletic form and straight black hair a contrast to my own ivory skin, red hair and the fact that working 24/7 had left me with a body that had definitely put on some weight.

"So, is this her then?" the young woman asked Luke.

He turned to her and nodded.

"Hmm. I thought she'd be prettier," said the young woman before walking out of our room completely topless, probably in search of her bra. Meanwhile, Luke continued to dress himself.

When my senses returned, I realized that I had not moved.

Luke was now fully dressed, and fixing his cuff links.

"How could you...," I managed to whimper.

"No hard feelings Lucille. Sometimes a high-value man needs to be appreciated by something beautiful. Nida over there provides that."

"So, I'm not pretty enough for you, huh?" I asked, my eyes downtrodden.

I wanted to confront him. But I was never any good on the defensive.

"You're a real prick Luke. Fifteen years and you've never cared about what I want. You think I'm too fat now? Well, you're 60, and fat too. The only reason she's even with you is because you're rich and powerful," I sneered.

"Exactly. Men have that power. It worked on you, and it will work on her," he calmly replied.

Then, a dam burst. Like I had been holding everything in for so long.

I cried. In front of my partner and boss. Well, my... ex-partner? Ex-boss? What the Hell was this man.

I cried heavy tears. I dry heaved and cried the ugliest tears I possibly could. I was seething with rage, and hatred. Hatred of myself for not seeing it sooner. Hatred of Luke for being a colossal fucking prick.

I pushed into our bedroom and threw open my closet. I grabbed a pink Gucci bag that I had found for myself in Québec City a few years ago, and started throwing some clothing into the bag. I was fully conscious that my panties were a size "large" whereas Nida looked like she could squeeze that body into an extra small. Fuck her. I was dry heaving sobs while seething with rage. I am sure I looked terrible.

I didn't know where I was going, or what I was going to do, but it sure as fuck wouldn't be here with Luke, and it sure as fuck wasn't going to be at the law firm where I worked.

I didn't even bother to say goodbye to Luke... or Nida, who was still there when I left. I didn't even bother to tell my firm that I was quitting. I couldn't bear the thought of all of them looking at me, knowing that Luke had only been with me to fuel his ego.

I merely grabbed my bag and headed back down the elevator to my electric car. I needed to leave Montréal.

Because sometimes when you're at the top, you have nowhere left to go but down. The higher up you are, the harder the decent to the bottom.

I regretted humiliating that woman in court. Because that's what all this was. This world of high-priced suits and expensive condos. It was just humiliation for women. She was humiliated by me today, just like I was humiliated by Nida. In a few years, it would be Nida's turn to get humiliated. Because the men who were royally screwing us were never humiliated. It was their fault, and we were paying the price. They were never blamed, because it was a man's world. I was just unfortunately living in it.

I had nowhere to go. I did not want to check into a hotel. I wanted to go somewhere where I could be comfortable with who I was, and see people who loved me for who I was.

That left me only a few options. None of them were in the big city. I was going to go back home to Mom and Dad's farm. I quickly called my sister Daniella, who lived in the same town with her husband and four children, to let her know that I was coming over and to make sure that she had some wine. Then I started driving and let the tears flow.

And that is how I found myself on the Jacques Cartier Bridge, stuck in afternoon traffic, crying my eyes out.

Chapter II: A Sister's Influence

It took nearly four hours to drive from Montréal to the South shore of Québec City. It took me longer, because I had to charge up my electric car. I drove in silence for the entirety of the trip. I lived in fear that if I turned on the radio, I would hear some cheery pop verse sung by an up-and-coming woman. A woman not unlike the one I had just publicly outed and shamed that very morning. I couldn't take that risk. I'd rather listen to the weather for four hours than hear a woman sing into a microphone about how we are strong.

So, I drove until the autumn sun started to set, finally arriving in my small hometown, a town of barely fifty-thousand people forty-five minutes south of Québec City.

It was dinner time when I arrived, and the roads were barren. There were a few people out enjoying a stroll on the leaf lined streets, couples holding hands with children running amok. There were lots of children. Some things about Québec never change.

There was nobody in Gucci, Dior or Chanel here - and for once in my life that suited me just fine.

My sister's house was located close to the downtown, only a block or two from the house in which we grew up. There was a dépanneur on the corner with a couple of kids loitering about. I signalled at the stop sign and turned the corner onto my sister's street.

Daniella's house was a traditional maison Canadienne, constructed before the First World War back when the town was renowned for its cheese, rather than for wine and tourism. She had purchased the house right after her honeymoon with her husband, Sylvain. He was an affable guy, and suited her well. He was a cook in a bistro that catered to tourists. He was a simple guy, and was an excellent father to their four children. It used to make my blood boil that he never pursued college, or that he thought that a t-shirt and jeans were formal attire. Looking back, I cannot believe I was so judgemental.

But he cooked for my sister. He cleaned the house. He took his kids to swimming lessons, and was all around a good guy to her. He had never been anything but polite and friendly to me, and I had to admit that I was looking forward to seeing him now. He was to Daniella all the things that my partner never provided me throughout my life. It made me appreciate him all the more as the years went on.

I pulled into her driveway at a quarter to ten. Her kitchen light was still on. I knew she was waiting up for me. She always did.

She had the front door open before I even stepped out of my car. I never even got a word out before my sister was embracing me in a hug.

Both Daniella and I had put on weight since the last time I had seen her. At least she had a decent excuse. She was an assistant manager at a furniture store, raising four kids in a recession. I was a workaholic. We were not the same, even if from behind, it was getting impossible to tell me apart from my fellow redhead sister.

She hugged me for a few minutes as we stood outside in the autumn evening. It felt amazing. It felt safe.

Eventually, she let go of me and looked at my face. I still had makeup running down my cheeks, and had not had time to change my business suit from the case this morning. There were absolutely creases up and down my blazer from the trip, and I am certain that I had a run in both sides of my pantyhose, not to mention the rat's nest that passed for my hairdo.