Chapter 1

On the day a dispute broke out between my students, I saw Samantha again—the girl I had broken up with ten years ago; the girl who had been fighting wiped away her tears and cried out for her mother.

Samantha froze when she saw me. After a long moment, she seemed to remember herself and quickly apologized.

"Mr. Brooke, I'm sorry for causing you trouble."

I handled the compensation matter strictly by the book.

When everything was settled, she lingered behind the others, clearly wanting to speak but hesitating.

"I remember you didn't want to be a teacher back then," she said.

I smiled faintly and walked her to the office door.

"People change. So do their thoughts."

Just like my feelings for her—those had been turned over long ago.

Chapter 1

Children's quarrels flare up quickly—and fade just as fast.

The two girls who had been fighting ran off laughing and shoving each other, with the other child's father following behind.

Only Samantha remained, standing where she was, quietly watching me.

Her gaze wasn't intense, but it wasn't calm either.

"How have you been all these years?" she asked.

I treated her the same way I did every other parent and gave a polite nod.

"Teaching is demanding, but the students are fairly well-behaved."

"Lisa's mom," I continued, "you should talk with Lisa more at home. She admitted her mistake this time, but if she hits someone again, the other parents won't let it go so easily."

Her throat moved as she swallowed, then she suddenly changed the subject.

"I mean… these past years, have you ever—"

"Mom!"

Instinctively, I stepped back. Lisa's voice came from the far end of the hallway.

"Come on! Let's go home! Dad will be unhappy if we're late!"

The hand Samantha had raised stopped in midair. My smile didn't change.

"Be careful on the way home, Lisa's mom."

By the time I turned back to my desk, she was already gone.

The math teacher, Thomas Coran, came in from outside and asked casually, "Lisa got into another fight?"

My pen paused over the stack of homework. "Another?"

"Oh, right—I forgot you just transferred here. Lisa is the troublemaker in Class Three," he said.

"She gets into trouble almost every week and has to call her parents in. But her attitude is great—she cries and admits her mistakes every time, even hits herself to show remorse. Then next time, she does it all over again.

"I really don't know how her parents raised her."

I frowned and pulled out Lisa's file.

Mother: Samantha Blakely

Father: Zane Schindler

"You know Paranoma Tech in the city center? That's her mom's company," Thomas said. "Her dad runs an art gallery. Both are highly educated—one's an entrepreneur, the other an artist. All the buffs stacked up, and they still ended up with a little troublemaking demon."

He clicked his tongue helplessly and handed me another form.

"Oh, right—the director said you have yet to fill in your family details. He wants you to complete it."

I answered softly, "I grew up in an orphanage. I don't have any other family."

"Ah—sorry, sorry. I'll take this back to the director in a bit."

Standing across from me, he sorted through other papers. Maybe out of guilt, he glanced at me several times before finally working up the courage to say, "Adam, it's okay. Once you start dating and get married, you'll have a family too."

Then he showed me photos of his friends, saying he could introduce me to someone if I liked.

I shook my head and thanked him for his kindness.

"Many years ago, I was in a relationship. I almost had a family back then."

"And then?" he asked.

"Then…"

'Then she built a family with someone else, and I became alone again,' I thought silently.

He frowned, eyes full of disdain.

"You ran into a trash woman, didn't you? Where'd you meet her—by a garbage bin or a septic tank?"

His words made me laugh. My gaze drifted back to the line on the form that read: Mother: Samantha Blakely

Chapter 2

As the noise of students leaving school rose from the playground, I was suddenly reminded of the first time I met Samantha in my sophomore year of high school. It, too, was because of a fight.

I had punched my deskmate for calling me a bastard. She had beaten up the PE rep for calling her a jinx.

Two stubborn people who refused to admit fault—and had no parents to call—were made to stand together beneath the flagpole, on display before the entire school.

Amid the principal's scolding, she noticed the cotton stuffed into my bleeding nose and the cut on my index finger from shattered glass.

Her dark eyes narrowed. "You lost the fight?"

I raised a brow. "I skipped breakfast this morning. Next time, I'll beat him until he begs."

She paused, then said lightly, "Next time you fight, come find me. I'll make sure you win."

Thomas lifted his hand.

"Hold on. You fought because your deskmate ran his mouth. Why did she fight?"

I rubbed the scar on my finger, my gaze sliding down past the word Mother—

—Grandmother.

"She lost her father when she was little. Her grandparents died in elementary school. In middle school, her mother fell ill. Her tuition was scraped together by relatives and neighbors. Her classmates all say she's a jinx."

Thomas stared, stunned, then sighed after a long moment.

"Two unlucky kids, finding each other."

I pressed my lips together.

In truth, after we got into a top university, the two of us became three.

A good friend I hadn't seen in years turned out to be at the same university. He ran toward me excitedly and accidentally knocked over Samantha's cup. The milk tea she had made for me splashed all over both of them.

Afraid their first impressions of each other would be ruined, I hurried to introduce them.

"This is my girlfriend, Samantha.

"Samantha, this is my best friend from the orphanage—Zane."

…

My relationship with Samantha was never what you'd call romantic.

In high school, we went to class during the day and skipped evening study sessions at night to hand out flyers, earning money for the next day's meals.

When the flyers were gone, we curled up together in the corridor outside her mother's hospital ward, using the hospital lights to tutor each other.

I was bad at math and good at French. She was the opposite.

So as not to disturb the other patients, we could only write what we wanted to say on scraps of paper.

Over three years of high school, we filled five whole notebooks with notes. Our SAT scores were exactly the same.

On the day we checked the results, her mother couldn't eat a thing. I fed her spoonfuls of porridge, and she gripped my fingers, her eyes reddening.

"Adam… if you and Samantha can't get into the same university, will you still come see me?

"It's fine if you fall in love with another girl in the future. Just come back and be my son, all right?

"Adam… I really can't bear to let you go."

When Samantha came in with sun-dried clothes in her arms and saw us crying together, she sighed helplessly.

"Worst case, we do long distance. Once we graduate, we'll get married right away. Anyway, we're meant to stay together for life."

Later, when we entered university, I moved out of the orphanage, and her mother was discharged from the hospital.

She could no longer bring herself to accept help from relatives and neighbors, so the two of us applied for student loans together.

University gave us more time to work. I took two jobs. She took three.

We were in different departments, so most days we only saw each other late at night, walking back to the dorms after work, leaning close and talking about our hopes for the future.

We made a pact: in our junior year, we'd compete for funded exchange-student spots; in senior year, we'd go to Abrerica together. Then, after graduation, we would get married.

For that future full of promise, we studied harder, worked harder, and saved every cent we could.

Chapter 3

But just when Samantha and I had finally saved enough money for studying abroad, fate played a cruel joke on us.

Samantha's mother took a sudden turn for the worse and was admitted to the ICU.

Every cent we had saved went straight into her treatment. We borrowed heavily from others, but it still wasn't enough. Her condition kept fluctuating. Samantha stayed by the ICU doors day and night, unable to leave.

I skipped all my classes and worked from morning till night, sleeping only three hours a day. Every dollar I earned went straight to her.

During that time, neither of us had the energy to talk about the future. Our text messages were filled with nothing but critical condition notices from the hospital and my daily transfer records.

The future felt too distant. The present alone was already exhausting.

Fortunately, the heavens did not push us too far. Before the final list was confirmed, her mother's condition stabilized.

Six months of unbearable tension suddenly loosened.

She rushed back from the hospital. I quit two of my part-time jobs. Like lunatics, we crammed together and threw ourselves into the long-awaited study-abroad exams.

The results were posted quickly. Once again, we had identical scores.

But after missing an entire semester of classes, both of our participation grades were zero.

Her appeal was based on caring for her mother.

I didn't even need to appeal—every teacher and administrator knew I had been working to make money.

Filial devotion defeated practical considerations. I lost.

My qualification was revoked, and the spot went to the third-ranked student.

Samantha stormed into the academic office, insisting on proving that all my jobs had been for her sake. But the decision was final. There was no turning it back.

Clenching her fists, she said that if I wasn't going, neither was she.

But this had been her dream since childhood—to study business in Abrerica, return home to start her own company, and give her mother and me a better life.

I forced myself not to cry, grabbed her hand, and said harshly, "If you don't go, I'll break up with you."

She sobbed uncontrollably, holding me tight and swearing through her tears, "Adam, wait for me. I will come back after I finish my studies and marry you. I'll give you a home. If I let you down, may I die without a whole body."

By the time I finished my story, Thomas was already crying so hard he could barely breathe.

"You've suffered too much… far too much," he said. "But then, why didn't you get married? Did something happen to her in Abrerica?"

I shook my head calmly. "She fell in love with another man."

His sobbing stopped abruptly. Thomas wiped his eyes and clenched his fist in fury.

"Then she might as well have died in Abrerica!"

I sometimes think heaven is simply unfair. Every time I believe I'm about to have a family, it throws another obstacle in my way.

On the day the exchange student list was posted, the boy ranked third shouted with joy in front of the notice board. When he turned around, our eyes met.

"Adam!"

"Zane?"

I was still dazed when he rushed over excitedly.

He accidentally knocked into the tea Samantha had made to comfort me.

And that was how the only two exchange students in the entire university became connected.

…

Zane and I both grew up in an orphanage.

I was a few months older, so I naturally became the one who looked after him.

When we fought for food, I let him eat first.

When there were new clothes, I let him choose first.

When there was a chance to study, I sent him to the better art school.

So when I found out he and Samantha would be studying abroad together, Zane patted his chest and promised me, "Adam, don't worry. I'll keep an eye on Samantha. I won't let any other man get close to her."

At that moment, what I thought was—

At least Samantha wouldn't be alone and helpless overseas.

After they left the country, my life returned to the same relentless busyness as before the exams.

Chapter 4

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!"

Chapter 5

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.