Samantha's mother and I still had to live. We had rent to pay and medicine to buy.

The only way was to work day and night, then sleep through classes to make up for it.

Thomas frowned again.

"That's her mother. Why are you the one taking care of her, buying medicine, and earning money to support her?

"She goes to Abrerica and just enjoys herself? No job, no income, and she doesn't give you a cent?"

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I answered softly, "Yeah."

When she first went abroad, she called me every day, sighing about how expensive everything was, how she couldn't find a job, how she never had enough to eat.

Zane complained too, saying life there was nothing like home—that even our days in the orphanage had been better than studying abroad.

I felt sorry for them. I squeezed money out of my own teeth and transferred it to them, supporting their living expenses.

Later, the calls grew fewer and fewer. After half a year, they only took the money and no longer replied.

At that point, Thomas's phone rang. He hurried off to clock out.

I took one last look at Lisa's file, then stood up and went home.

In the shower, I pulled off my scarf and exposed the vicious, ugly scar on my neck.

Samantha had caused it.

Ten years ago, in the spring, I couldn't reach her—and Zane had vanished too. Gritting my teeth, I used the last of my money to buy a cheap plane ticket and went to look for her.

What I saw was Samantha in Zane's arms, kissing him deeply beneath a tree.

When they parted, he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. They looked at each other and smiled, their eyes filled with starlight.

The spring breeze passed by. The streetlamp glowed dimly. Maple leaves rustled softly.

They looked like a painting, like a poem written entirely of tenderness.

I went mad. I rushed over and tore them apart, then smashed the cup I was holding into Zane's face.

When I raised my hand to slap him again, the cup flew back at me—thrown by Samantha.

It struck my cheek.

Scalding hot water burst out and ran down my neck.

I had forgotten—the lid of that cup had been broken since the day they met. It never closed properly. All these years, I hadn't had the money to buy a new one.

The skin where the water flowed burned with agony. Samantha seemed not to notice at all. She pulled Zane behind her and looked at me coldly.

"Adam, if you want to hate someone, hate me. Zane didn't wrong you."

I hated her. Of course I hated her.

Ignoring the pain of the burn, I demanded to know why they had betrayed me.

Zane was crying too—at first only choking softly. But when the onlookers formed a circle around us, he suddenly exploded.

"Adam, you have no idea how hard things are for us overseas! We have only each other to rely on. Being together is only natural!"

I refused to accept that.

"Do you think my life back home is easy? You have each other to depend on—what do I have? I have only myself!"

Samantha stopped me when I lunged forward, pulling him into her protective space.

She lowered her eyes, her gaze cold and distant.

"I'm sorry. This is my fault. But Zane didn't lie to you. In this past year, we went through a lot together. We didn't tell you because we didn't want you to worry."

My heart turned cold. I stared at her and asked, "So because you went through a lot this past year, the seven years we went through together don't count anymore?

"Do you know that before I came to look for you, your mother was still at home talking about you, afraid something might happen to you?

"And in the end, for half a year you didn't even call to ask how she was. You took the money I sent you—then turned around and started dating my best friend!"

Samantha snapped her head up. Her lips were pressed tight, her eyes so dark they looked like black holes.

I knew her well. She had grown up poor, and whenever money was involved, she carried a deep sense of inferiority.

During those years in university, every time she saw the relatives and neighbors who had lent her money, she humbled herself to the dust.

And for all these years, she and her mother had lived almost entirely on what I earned.

"Adam, I used your money. I wronged you," she said. "How do you want me to make it up to you? Is this life enough?"

With that, she pulled a folding fruit knife from her backpack.

Without hesitation, she drove it into her lower abdomen.

Blood burst out in a horrifying spray. Zane screamed and shouted for an ambulance.

The people around us panicked, and chaos erupted.

I stood there in a daze, my vision flooded with red.

The woman I had loved through my entire youth held her wound with one hand and reached up with the other to touch Zane's face, soothing him softly.

"Don't be afraid. I'll give this life back to him. From now on, he'll have no reason to hate you."

Zane was sobbing uncontrollably. He glared at me with bloodshot eyes.

"Adam, we truly love each other. Why can't you stand to see us happy? We've already apologized. Why won't you let us go?"

The alarm clock suddenly rang. I jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat.

It had been a long time since I'd dreamed of that day.

At school, while the other teachers were in class, Thomas cornered me and pressed me to tell him what happened afterward.

When he heard that she had answered her betrayal with suicide, he squinted in disgust.

"As if you forced her to die. She was just feeling guilty."

Yes. She was feeling guilty.

But I was treated as the murderer and sent to prison.

In that country, I knew no one but Samantha and Zane. I had no money for bail and could only hope Samantha would remember what little feeling we once had and help withdraw the case.

She didn't.

I was nearly flayed alive inside before the police finally proved my innocence.

By the time I was released, two years had passed.

I was deported home, only to learn that the school had expelled me and that the small place I rented had been taken back.

Samantha's mother had been moved away. Everything in the house was thrown out, leaving not a trace behind.

I refused to give up. I asked around everywhere about Samantha.

Until one day, a former classmate told me that after I was arrested, the two of them had returned to the country and gotten married.

Everyone praised them as a perfect match—her talent, his looks, made for each other.

One had studied abroad yet remained filial; after succeeding in business, the first thing she did was hire full-time care for her mother.

The other opened an art gallery, and at its very center hung a painting he had done himself: a family of four.

Samantha. Zane. Samantha's mother. And a two-year-old girl.

"So while you were suffering in prison, they had a child! They didn't help clear your name—they stepped on your efforts and leaped straight into wealth!"

Thomas was so furious he jumped to his feet and slammed his ruler hard on the desk, cursing nonstop.

I felt helpless and wanted to tell him that I no longer cared—that there was no need for him to upset himself over it.

Just then, someone knocked on the door.

Samantha stood at the office entrance, looking at me uneasily.