The Aurora Saw Our Love End

1 Lucy’s first love Marc paid to run me off the road, shattering my legs and ending my career as a surgeon. While I lay critical in the ICU, Lucy knelt outside the glass doors through the night. She sent every conspirator to prison, ruined Marc’s name, and forced him out of the country by morning. The feared courtroom litigator disappeared. She abandoned corporate defense to represent traffic victims pro bono, inked my name on her wrist, and flew me to Iceland each winter for the northern lights. When nightmares woke me, she stayed by my bed, holding my hands and whispering that I was safe. I believed tragedy had finally earned me her heart until one night beneath the emerald aurora. Her coat slipped, and her phone fell. The screen lit up with a photo of Marc shirtless in bed. The caption read, Must have been torture holding back all these years. Does your cripple husband know you only bring him to Iceland so you have an excuse to sleep with me? I unlocked the phone and scrolled up. Her last message to him read, Just for tonight. Keep your mouth shut. The arctic wind cut through me. Every year of penance had been a performance. She had not brought me to heal. She had brought me somewhere remote and frozen to hide her betrayal. The northern lights blazed overhead, but I felt nothing. I threw her phone into the snow, booked a one-way flight to Boston, and walked away without a word. … Twelve minutes before the boarding gate closed, my phone rang. It was Lucy. Her name flashed on the screen as the airport's draft chilled my fingers. She called six times. On the seventh, I finally swiped to answer. The other end was quiet, save for her shallow, controlled breathing. "Gavin, where are you?" I kept silent. She sounded like she was keeping her temper in check, softening her tone as if coaxing a frightened child. "Don't wander off. It's freezing out there. I'm having someone pick you up." I stared out at the heavy snow blanketing the runway. "Lucy," I whispered, my voice sounding incredibly distant. "Do you find my limp repulsive?" Silence stretched across the line. It was so quiet I could hear the faint rustle of her clothes. When she finally spoke, there was no denial, no frantic defense. Only a cold question: "Who told you that?" She didn't deny it. She only wanted to know who leaked the truth. A dry, raspy laugh escaped my throat, tearing at my raw vocal cords. "So it's true." Lucy's voice hardened. "Gavin, come back." Always those two words. Every time I woke up screaming, shaking off the memory of the impact, whispering that I couldn't drive down that road again, she would hold me tight and say, Come back. Just come back to me. I used to think she was my safe harbor. I had no idea she was the one holding the blade. The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. I looked down at my hand. When I had thrown her phone into the snow, the cracked screen had sliced my index finger. A bead of blood had dried into a tiny dark speck under the cold air. "Lucy, let's get a divorce." A sharp clatter sounded from her end, as if something had dropped. A moment later, she regained the icy composure she wore in court. "Divorce is not a conversation we have over a phone call." "Then what is?" I asked. "Using a trip with your husband as a cover to sleep with Marc? Is that suitable?" She didn't answer. In that silence, the last piece of my heart died. I hung up, switched off my phone, and walked through the gate. As the plane climbed into the heavy clouds, I stared out the window, my eyes burning but dry. I landed in Boston the following afternoon. The moment I exited customs, Lucy's chauffeur was waiting. He stepped forward. "Mr. Jiang, Mrs. Jiang asked me to take you home." I pulled my suitcase back, avoiding his reach. "No, thank you." The driver looked caught in the middle. "But sir, Mrs. Jiang said your legs are weak. She doesn't want you traveling alone." My legs were ruined, so I couldn't walk alone. Ever since the accident, everyone spoke to me like that. They booked my rides, hid my car keys, decided where I went and who I saw, shielding me from any trigger. They handled me like glass, terrified I would shatter again. Yet no one ever asked who had broken me in the first place. I walked past him. As I reached the curb, a black Bentley pulled up. The rear window slid down to reveal Lucy. Her eyes were dark with exhaustion, but the tattoo of my name, Gavin, was stark and glaring against her pale wrist. She stepped out, draping her heavy wool coat over my shoulders. "Let's go home first. Don't make a scene in public." I looked at her. Her hands were warm, but her coat carried the faint, crisp scent of the masculine cologne from the hotel in Iceland. Marc's signature scent. I slipped the coat off and handed it back to her. "Lucy, my entire life is already a joke." Her fingers tensed. The next second, she grabbed my wrist, not hard, but with a firm grip that refused to let me pull away. "You can be angry, Gavin. You can blame me all you want. But don't punish your own body out of spite." I stared at the tattoo on her wrist. Those letters used to be my anchor. Now, they were just a cruel brand over a rotting wound. I pulled my hand free. "You tattooed the wrong name." Lucy's composure finally cracked. Nearby, the driver opened the trunk. Inside sat my old suitcase and a thick black document folder. Lucy reached in, pulled out a transparent plastic sleeve, and held it in front of me. Inside was a yellowed ultrasound image showing a tiny, blurry dark spot. Eight weeks. The baby we lost. My hands went cold. "I know you visit his grave every year, Gavin," she said softly. I stared at her, frozen as the chilly wind whipped around us. She hadn't come to take me home out of love. She had brought my final, most painful weakness to force me to my knees. The faded paper was curled at the edges, preserved in that cheap plastic sleeve. It was the only tangible proof that our child had ever existed. When I first found out she was pregnant, I had stayed up all night with sheer joy. But the very next day, she had handed me an abortion slip, saying casually, Marc heard I was pregnant and threatened to take a dangerous humanitarian post in Africa. We can have another baby, Gavin, but Marc wouldn't survive out there. The baby was gone, but the ultrasound remained, a permanent splinter in my chest. I stared at the plastic sleeve, my throat tight. "You're using our dead child to threaten me?" Lucy frowned. "I just know you'd never leave it behind." She was so certain. Certain that I would hurt, certain that I would yield, certain that I was still trapped in the wreckage of that crash and could never leave her. I reached for the folder, but she pulled it back. "Let's go home first." "Give it to me." Her tone dropped, carrying a warning weight. "Gavin, don't make a scene at the airport." A scene. When I woke up from my coma and refused to get into a car, it was a scene. When I panicked near the crash site, it was a scene. Now, wanting my own child's ultrasound back was a scene. A hollow laugh escaped me. "Lucy, when you look at that paper, does your conscience not scream?" Her expression hardened into granite. "Gavin. Enough." Enough. That was her favorite word. The nightmares were enough. The physical therapy was enough. My doubts were enough. Now, even the truth was too much. I turned to walk away. Her voice stopped me in my tracks. "Your mother's appeal hearing is next Tuesday." My feet felt glued to the concrete. Years ago, my mother had been framed for corporate bribery. Lucy was the one who took the case and cleared her name. Though the initial verdict was overturned, the final appeal was still pending. For years, Lucy had protected my family, my mother, and my fragile dignity. I had thought it was love. Now I realized every favor carried a price tag. Lucy stepped up beside me, her voice softening. "I'm not threatening you, Gavin. I just want you to calm down and think." I looked at her. "So freezing my credit cards, keeping my friends from picking me up, and holding my mother's freedom over my head... that's your way of helping me calm down?" She fell silent for a moment. "You aren't in the right state of mind to make decisions." I looked at the black ink on her wrist, sitting like a permanent, mocking badge of guilt. Marc's texts flashed in my mind: Did you have a wild night, or were you just desperate to escape your cripple? "How long have you and Marc been sleeping together again?" I asked. Lucy hesitated. That hesitation told me everything. "You can't even give me a timeline, can you?" She closed her eyes. "It's not what you think." "Then what is it?" She had no answer. Her phone buzzed in her hand, the screen lighting up right in my line of sight. It was a photo from Marc. Her diamond earring sat on a hotel nightstand. You left this last night, Lucy. If your husband asks, tell him you lost it at the terminal. Lucy darkened the screen instantly. I stared at the bustling airport traffic, my fists clenching. "Lucy, you make me sick." She flinched. Before this, I had never spoken a harsh word to her. Even when the phantom pain in my legs kept me awake, I would bite down on my sheets rather than complain. She finally realized I wasn't throwing a tantrum. Yet, she still gripped my arm, guiding me toward the open car door. "Let's go home first." The ride was dead silent. Lucy sat beside me, keeping her distance. Her phone lit up again. I didn't turn my head, but the reflection on the dark window glass betrayed the message. Marc again: He still can't even sit in the front seat, can he? Must be exhausted playing chauffeur to a broken man. My nails dug into my palms. After the crash, I developed severe PTSD. A sudden brake would send me into a panic attack. Back then, Lucy would hold me, promising she'd walk with me forever if that's what it took. It took me years to build the courage to touch a steering wheel again, hoping I could drive her to work. I had no idea my pain was just a joke she shared with her lover. The car pulled up to our house. The housekeeper met us at the door, her face tense and eyes darting nervously. "Welcome home, sir." Sensing the tension, I asked, "Who's inside?" The housekeeper glanced at Lucy. Lucy's voice was flat. "Let's go inside." The heavy oak door swung open. Marc was sitting on our living room sofa. He was wearing my black cashmere cardigan, holding my favorite ceramic mug. He looked up, offering a smooth, polite smile. "Gavin. Long time no see." I stood in the entryway, melted snow dripping from my shoes onto the rug. That cardigan was a gift Lucy brought back from Switzerland two years ago, right after my reconstructive surgery when my legs were always freezing. She had wrapped it around me and whispered, Wear this whenever you're cold. Now, it was draped over Marc's shoulders, warming the man who had shattered my body. Lucy’s brow furrowed. "How did you get in here?" Marc's eyes welled with tears instantly. "I didn't have a place to stay after my flight landed. I just wanted to pick up some of my old things. The housekeeper said you weren't back yet, so I waited." He turned his gaze to me. "Gavin, please don't misunderstand. Lucy and I aren't doing anything wrong." Those words were a sick echo of the past. Years ago, he had asked to meet me, claiming he was ready to step aside and let Lucy be happy. Hours later, my brakes failed. My entire life ended in a deafening crunch of metal. I walked over and snatched the mug from his hand. "This belongs to me." Marc's hand hovered in the air, his polite smile faltering. "It's just a mug, Gavin. You're still as sensitive as ever." Lucy looked at me. "Gavin, go upstairs and rest." I stared back. "Make him leave." She hesitated. That split second of hesitation was all the answer I needed. "It's fine, Lucy," Marc said softly, standing up. "I'll go. He's been through a lot of trauma; I shouldn't agitate him." As he rose, the cardigan slipped from his shoulder. When he bent to retrieve it, his collar parted to reveal a dark, unmistakable bite mark on his neck. Lucy's eyes flicked to it. It was a brief look, but it was brutal. Realizing he'd been caught, Marc quickly pulled his collar high. "The hotel heating was too high last night. Broke out in a rash." The excuse was pathetic. Lucy's voice went cold. "Marc. Shut up." But the damage was done. Looking at him, I remembered the night outside the ICU. Lucy had just lost the baby, her face pale, yet she knelt on the hard hospital floor until dawn. When I woke, she looked at me through the glass, her eyes bloodshot. I will make everyone who hurt you and our child pay, she had promised. I believed her. I thought she hated Marc. I didn't know hatred and lust could thrive so comfortably in the exact same heart. I picked up the cardigan from the sofa and handed it to the housekeeper. "Throw this in the trash." Marc's face fell. "Lucy got you that, didn't she? What a waste." I looked him dead in the eye. "Why would I keep something that's been ruined by garbage?" Silence blanketed the room. Lucy's brow pinched deep. "Gavin, stop taking your anger out on him." Taking it out on him. She called this a tantrum. I nodded. "Fine. Then I'll ask you." I pulled the draft of the divorce agreement from my bag, one I had my lawyer draft during my layover. "Sign it." Lucy stared at the pages, her eyes cooling into ice. "You certainly prepared quickly." "Not as quickly as you," I said. "Booking a room for him while pretending to watch the northern lights with me requires real coordination." Marc let out a soft sigh, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "Don't blame her, Gavin. A woman has needs. Besides, you've needed a babysitter just to leave the house for years." He left the rest unsaid, but the implication was louder than any insult. "Marc!" Lucy barked. Marc's eyes watered. "Am I wrong, Lucy? Didn't you only stay with him out of pity?" I turned my gaze to Lucy. She said nothing. Maybe she didn't have the time, or maybe she simply didn't know how to deny it. A crushing weight settled on my chest, cutting off my breath. In that moment, I realized Marc's mockery wasn't what hurt. It was Lucy's silence. I placed the papers on the table. "Ten tomorrow morning. At the attorney's office." "That's not happening," Lucy said. "Then we go to court." She stared at me. "I still hold your mother's case files." I let out a soft laugh. "So you admit you're blackmailing me." Her jaw clenched. Marc whispered, "Don't, Lucy. Gavin's unstable right now. The more you push, the more he'll think you don't care." Lucy didn't look at him. She picked up the contract and tore it down the middle, letting the pieces flutter to the rug. "We'll talk when you've cooled down." I walked upstairs, ignoring the shredded paper. In our bedroom, a framed photo of the northern lights sat on the nightstand. On the back, Lucy had written in her own hand: Don't be afraid, I'm here. I flipped the frame face down. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out an old backup phone my mother had given me before her arrest. I powered it on and dialed a number I had memorized long ago. A crisp, female voice answered. "Gavin. You finally called." I looked out the window, Marc's faint voice still drifting up from the living room. "I want to file for divorce," I said. There was a brief pause on the line. "Gavin, the investigation you asked me to run... I have the results." My grip tightened on the phone. "Tell me." "The traffic cameras on the stretch where you crashed were never damaged," she said. I choked, unable to form a word. She continued, "The original footage exists. It was kept out of the official court records. The police were handed a doctored backup copy." My vision blurred. "So that's why only the mechanic and the truck driver went to prison." The line was quiet for a second. "Because someone covered Marc's tracks." My voice trembled. "Who?" She sounded hesitant, but she spoke the name anyway. "Lucy." My blood turned to ice. "Lucy intervened personally. She claimed Marc had only accidentally mentioned your itinerary to the mechanics and had no direct role in the crash. She was the one who had the 'damaged camera' report submitted to the police." I stood frozen. It wasn't a lack of evidence. Marc hadn't escaped by luck. Lucy had cleared his path herself. She threw the hired help into prison to appease her conscience, while the mastermind was sent safely abroad. For four years, my nightmares, my agony, and my search for justice had been buried under her lie of 'insufficient evidence.' Before I could speak, the bedroom door swung open. Lucy stood on the threshold. Her eyes locked onto the old phone in my hand, her expression darkening. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She looked from the phone to my face. "Who are you calling?" I gripped the phone tighter. "My attorney." Her brow pinched. "Phoebe?" I didn't answer. The name seemed to prick her pride. "Gavin, you'd rather trust an outsider than listen to me?" I looked at her. "Then explain." She fell silent. It was always like this. She demanded I listen, but when it was time to speak, she offered nothing but silence. "How many times have you slept with Marc?" I asked. Her face went pale. She rarely lost her composure like this. In court, she could break the most stubborn criminals, but now, she couldn't utter a word. I nodded. "More than once." She took a step toward me. "Iceland was an accident." "An accident?" "I had too much to drink." "Did he force you, or did you walk into his room willingly?" Her throat bobbed. "Gavin, please. Stop." I laughed aloud. Not because it was funny, but because it was so utterly absurd. "When you were 'investigating' the crash, you made me recount the accident over and over. You said we needed every detail to secure a conviction." My voice was barely a whisper. "You sat there listening to me describe the brakes failing, the roar of the truck, the realization that my hands were ruined and I'd never hold a scalpel again." I held out the phone. "Were you thinking about justice for me, or were you figuring out how to build Marc's defense?" Her pupils dilated. In that single look, I knew Phoebe was telling the truth. Lucy knew. She knew Marc had orchestrated the crash. She knew he was the reason my joints throbbed with agony every time it rained. I stood up slowly. "You destroyed the evidence, didn't you?" She reached out, pressing her hands onto my shoulders. "Gavin, that's in the past." In the past. I had been trapped in that mangled car for four years, and she wanted to close the file with a single sentence. Her grip hurt my shoulders, but my body had already begun to shake. The screech of tires and the crunch of steel filled my ears again. Sensing my panic attack, she let go immediately. "I'm sorry." She had said those words a thousand times. Outside the ICU, after my nightmares, under the northern lights. But an apology couldn't fix my shattered knees or mend a life ruined by self-hatred. Marc's voice drifted through the door. "Lucy, I'm not feeling well. Can the driver take me to the clinic?" Lucy closed her eyes. I watched her, and she watched me. In that brief silence, history repeated itself. It was always like this. During my physical therapy, she'd slip away to answer his calls. When I needed her, she'd claim Marc's situation was more urgent. I'd wake up shaking, and she'd leave into the night because her phone lit up. Lucy whispered, "I'll be right back." I asked calmly, "He's more important, isn't he?" Driven to her limit, her tone sharpened. "He made a mistake, Gavin, but it was a crime of passion. In the timeline of our lives, you were the interloper." My ears rang. "What did you say?" Lucy realized her mistake, her face changing color. I took a step back. "A crime of passion." She said nothing. I thought of the 'punishment' she had given Marc. Sending him abroad. It sounded harsh, but he went with money, a luxury apartment, and her annual visits under the guise of the northern lights. Meanwhile, the man whose body was broken was left to rot in the dark. "I was the interloper. Fine," I said, my voice shaking. "Then I'm stepping aside." Lucy's voice went hoarse. "Gavin, don't push me." Marc couldn't wait any longer, he pushed the door open and walked in. "Since he's asking, why keep lying?" "Marc!" Lucy snapped. Marc sneered. "You've protected him for years, and he still treats you like an enemy." He tossed a manila folder at my feet. The papers spilled out. One sheet was a DNA test. Probability of Paternity: 99.99%. Child's Name: Oliver. Mother: Lucy. Father: Marc. My blood turned to stone. Marc whispered, "How do you think I left the country so smoothly, Gavin? Who do you think signed off on closing the investigation?" He looked at Lucy, his tone dripping with malice. "Lucy and I had Oliver before you two even married. He's already speaking, did you know that?" I looked up at Lucy. Her face was bloodless, as if she were receiving her own death sentence. Just then, the backup phone rang again. I tapped the speakerphone button. Phoebe's voice cut through the silence. "Gavin, we restored the files. We have proof Victoria He ordered the truck driver to change his route. Marc was the one who leaked your schedule and paid off the mechanics. And Lucy signed the order to seal the evidence." A suffocating silence fell over the bedroom. Lucy stared at me, paralyzed.