Matthew Wright's smile seemed a bit forlorn. "I don't deserve that. My position is low, I'm not part of the company's management circle. I just follow orders."

The two of them strolled and chatted. Brian Carter had prepared in advance, asked comprehensive questions, and shared some of his own thoughts. Seeing that he had some insight, Matthew Wright cooperatively offered quite a few suggestions.

Unknowingly, it was already noon when Matthew Wright's phone rang. The lock screen was a picture of a cute little girl.

Brian Carter asked, "Is that your daughter?"

"Yes," Matthew Wright replied happily. "Elementary school kids are very curious. Every day at noon she asks me what I'm eating."

Brian Carter took the opportunity to say goodbye, smiling: "Henry Bennett's restaurant is pretty good. You should head over, don't let the little girl worry her dad will go hungry."

After Matthew Wright left, the exhibition hall gradually emptied out. Brian Carter lingered a while longer in the quiet, his mind not on the paintings and calligraphy, just glancing around until he passed by a calligraphy piece.

Large regular script characters, writing Xin Qiji's "Po Zhen Zi," the brushwork flowing like clouds and water, full of strength and vigor.

Brian Carter had always admired regular script, and couldn't help but look a while longer. The more he looked, the more he felt that the calligrapher had hidden an indescribable indignation in the strokes.

He couldn't help but look for the signature—three characters: Samuel Bennett.

Brian Carter suddenly smiled. What a coincidence. He reached out his index finger and tapped twice on "Samuel Bennett" through the glass.

Back in the sales department, all the colleagues had gone for lunch. Brian Carter washed his hands and locked the project materials in the drawer.

Looking up, he caught a glimpse of someone coming in.

Samuel Bennett had been cooped up in the primary server room all morning. With no afternoon appointments, he had taken off his suit jacket, loosened his tie a bit, rolled up his shirt sleeves, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a box of sandwiches.

Brian Carter's mind was still on that night when they "let bygones be bygones," so he took the initiative to greet him: "Mr. Bennett."

Samuel Bennett still had the shadow of that bowl of soup lingering in his mind, not understanding how this person could act so oblivious. He said expressionlessly, "Come with me."

Brian Carter followed him into the president's office, closing the door tightly behind them. His mind was full of business, planning to take advantage of the quiet lunch break to discuss work.

Once Samuel Bennett sat down on the sofa, Brian Carter said, "I had a meeting with Yisi's project team this morning."

Samuel Bennett squeezed out some hand sanitizer, saying nothing.

Brian Carter got straight to the point: "One of our competitors this time is Duheng. David Thompson has already taken leave to avoid any conflict of interest."

Samuel Bennett opened the box and took a bite of his sandwich.

Brian Carter analyzed, "I believe David Thompson really cares about this. If we win this deal, it will be both a debut for Henry Bennett and a show of loyalty. If he loses to his own son, not only will he lose face, but he might also get a reputation for betraying his own side."

Samuel Bennett chewed in silence, showing no sign of speaking.

"So the person in charge must at least be someone David Thompson trusts," Brian Carter continued. "That director got promoted three levels under him, so he must be a capable right-hand man."

After finishing, Brian Carter asked, "Do you have any questions?"

Samuel Bennett was eating his lunch while dealing with this bit of business, almost getting indigestion. "Wait until the presentation is over. Reporting every day—do you think this is a student handing in homework?"

Brian Carter found it absurd. "Then why did you call me over?"

Samuel Bennett jerked his chin toward the display cabinet, where a paper bag sat. "I want you to take the thermos with you."

Brian Carter turned to get it. "Well, enjoy your meal. I'll head out."

Samuel Bennett said, "I haven't given you permission to leave yet."

Brian Carter wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but it seemed like Samuel Bennett was picking a fight, deliberately making things difficult. Even though they'd had words that night, hadn't they tacitly agreed to move on?

He held back his impatience and asked, "Is there anything else?"

Samuel Bennett swallowed the last bite. The smoked beef in the sandwich was a bit dry, and the cheese too rich. He said, "I'm thirsty. Peel me an apple."

Brian Carter frowned. "You think I'm your servant?"

Samuel Bennett replied, "I can drive you home. Can't you, Eldest Master Carter, peel an apple for me?"

Brian Carter understood now—if he didn't get a little payback for that minor grudge, Samuel Bennett probably wouldn't feel right.

Fine. He was from the twentieth century, and people of later generations were like juniors—he could be more tolerant.

Just think of it as doting on a descendant.

Brian Carter sat down next to Samuel Bennett, picked a big apple from the crystal plate, and now that he'd let it go, he could even offer a compliment: "I saw your calligraphy in the exhibition hall. It's pretty good."

Samuel Bennett said, "I'm good at regular script."

Brian Carter asked, "How many years have you practiced?"

"Since I was five. Ouyang Xiu said, 'Of all calligraphy, regular script is the hardest to master.'" Samuel Bennett recalled the handwriting in his notebook, which had a hint of regular script style. "Have you practiced?"

Brian Carter lifted the corner of his eye and glanced over, replying, "I practice small script. After all, 'and among regular script, small script is the hardest.'"

Samuel Bennett let out a "tch" and leaned back against the soft sofa.

The sound of the blade slicing through the apple skin was a soft "shasha." From behind, he couldn't see the progress, only Brian Carter slightly hunched over, his waist slender.

Brian Carter's suit was hung up every night to ensure it was neat the next day. Incense burned in the room overnight, so the fabric would inevitably pick up a faint scent.

Samuel Bennett sniffed, as if he caught a subtle fragrance.