“说。”陆司寒还是没抬头，眉头皱得更紧了。

门外站着的佣人张妈 shifts his weight, clearly hesitating. He sighs softly under his breath, "Mr. Lu, it's me, Zhang Ma. The young mistress is... she's asking for you."

That name, "young mistress," seems to pierce through the fog in陆司寒 mind. He finally glances up, the intense focus draining from his eyes. His gaze lands on the screen - a complex financial model he's been wrestling with for hours. The numbers dance invitingly, but an unexpected thought intrudes: what if this model isn't the most important thing in his life right now?

He casts a quick glance towards the door, then back to the平板, tapping his tongue against his cheek. Should he go? Or should he finish this? The latter sounds like the logical choice, but some pull, a familiar warmth that usually lies dormant, stirs within him. He's never particularly missed going to these events she insists on tagging him to, more often than not feeling like an outsider forced into social graces he rarely cares to cultivate. But the mention of her... it throws him off balance.