Driven by curiosity, I opened the display cabinet and took a closer look—

[Certified, Designated Slaughterhouse]

Me: “…”

The truth came out so unexpectedly.

It turns out that the fool from that night was really Duan Heng!

I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

What kind of mindset would a seemingly normal man have to custom-make a gold stamp used for inspecting pork, and under what kind of twisted psychology would he stamp it on someone?

I finally understood the true meaning of “hypocrisy.”

This was absolutely insane!

In that instant, all of Duan Heng’s previous tolerance, care, and even protection suddenly felt like it had an ulterior motive.

I took a few deep breaths but couldn’t suppress the anger surging in my chest—anger at being deceived.

Without thinking, I strode over and thrust the stamp in Duan Heng’s face, angrily questioning:

“What is this!”

Duan Heng blinked his dazed eyes, took a moment to focus, and when he realized what I was holding, a flicker of clarity flashed across his face.

…

In the living room, I sat expressionless, staring at the now half-sober man across from me. On the coffee table between us lay that stamp, the one that had caused me so much shame, to the point where I didn’t even dare go to public bathhouses.

Duan Heng took a deep breath and slowly began to explain.

“This stamp was a birthday gift from my childhood friend…”

From Duan Heng’s story, I learned the origin of the stamp.

Apparently, Duan Heng had a nickname, “The Stamping Master,” given to him by his friends because his job often required him to approve documents, which involved stamping them.

His childhood friend, who had a playful sense of humor, had this custom-made golden pork inspection stamp created for him on his birthday.

And his birthday just happened to be the same day I went to the bar to drown my sorrows.

I was at the bar, while they were in a nearby private room.

“So how did we end up together?” I asked the key question.

Duan Heng shook his head.

“I don’t know. I was also drunk that night.”

Hearing this, I swallowed hard.

Suddenly, I recalled what Duan Heng had said earlier when he was drunk.

Qin Fan, I’m not a model.

Could it be…

Did I, heartbroken and loosened up by alcohol, recklessly try to pay for some comfort, only to coincidentally run into Duan Heng at the bar and mistake him for a model?

No way, that couldn’t have happened, right?

Afraid of where my thoughts were leading, I hurriedly asked another question:

“So… you’ve always known it was me?”

Duan Heng shook his head again.

“When I woke up, you were already gone, and I didn’t remember anything. Even though I had a few fragmented memories, I thought they were drunken hallucinations and didn’t connect them to you.”

“As for why I didn’t try to find out who the person was… I was afraid it might be someone unremarkable.”

That explained everything.

It was the same thought process I had gone through.

15

After that, I asked Duan Heng a few more questions and confirmed that he genuinely hadn’t known it was me at first. He only recognized me when I accidentally turned on the video during a work report, and he saw the mark on my lower back.

As for why he stamped me that night… well, that might remain a mystery forever.

After all, drunk people can do all sorts of things. Like how I mistook my boss for a model.

It was all so absurd, yet it really happened.

It wasn’t about who was right or wrong—it was simply that alcohol had caused the mess.

“Since you knew it was me, why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, my fingers nervously tracing the edge of the sofa.

It caused me so much anxiety, making me suspect so many people. I even had to check the stamps on pork at the market to see if they matched the one on me.

I was on the verge of losing it.

Hearing this, Duan Heng fell silent.

He stared at me with an unreadable expression for a long time, and just when I thought he wouldn’t answer, he spoke quietly:

“I was afraid you’d run away.”

He used the word “afraid.”

Why?

I’m just an intern—nothing extraordinary about my skills or knowledge. I’m clumsy and make mistakes all the time. Even though I’ve been improving, it’s mostly thanks to Duan Heng giving me countless chances to learn from my errors.

If he wanted, he could easily find hundreds of assistants better than me.

Unless… it was me, as a person, that he cared about.

“I wasn’t planning to hide it from you forever. I was just waiting for the right time to tell you—a time when you wouldn’t be scared off.”

I avoided his gaze, looking anywhere but at him, and mumbled:

“Duan Heng do you… do you like me?”

16

“Yes.”

I had asked the question vaguely, but Duan Heng answered it clearly and without hesitation.

I froze for a moment, strangely not feeling shocked.

Maybe I had sensed it all along. After all, he never tried to hide the way he treated me differently.

I didn’t ask why, or when it started.

I simply lowered my head, full of guilt, and said:

“Sorry, Duan Heng. I don’t think I can return your feelings.”

Before he could respond, I quickly explained:

“It’s not you. It’s… it’s me.”

The truth is, I didn’t feel nothing for Duan Heng. During my time as his assistant, I had come to admire him in so many ways that it was impossible not to develop some feelings.

But when someone shatters your hopes for love, it’s hard to find the courage to embrace it again.

Jiang Yi left a deep mark on me.

What if Duan Heng was the same as Jiang Yi—unable to openly acknowledge his orientation, always keeping his options open, eventually wanting to live a “normal” life with marriage and kids?

In fact, Duan Heng might be even worse. He had a career and reputation to protect, which made him more likely to care about others’ opinions.

If we got together, and someone asked him, “Are you and your assistant dating?” Would he answer, “We’re just colleagues?”