Charismatic Shoemaker Lloyd

Benton’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he pulled into the quarter. Dust rose beneath the tires, settling slowly over the narrow street like a familiar shroud. The same crooked stalls. The same cracked pavement. He parked in front of his old shop. The faded sign above the door swung lazily in the breeze, its paint chipped, the letters barely holding on. Once, the sight of it had steadied him. It had been proof that no matter how little he had, he still had something that was his. Now, it felt smaller than ever. The engine went quiet. So did he. His phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Avery. Why are you not here yet. Benton stared at the screen for a long moment. The words felt unreal, detached from everything that had happened hours earlier. He imagined her saying it with that familiar smile—gentle, reassuring, from someone he hadn’t seen for months. The same smile that had carried him through long nights of sketching and doubt. Slowly, he locked the screen and slid t

“I can explain everything,” Old Charles said calmly. “But not here.” Benton took a step back. “I fixed your shoe. That’s all. I’m not going anywhere with you.” Old Charles studied him for a long moment, then glanced at his watch. “Then I’ll make this simple,” he said. “You can leave at any point.” Benton didn’t move. Old Charles continued evenly, “You’re curious. You wouldn’t be standing here otherwise. A street cobbler doesn’t dismantle that shoe by instinct. Not unless he was taught—whether he remembers it or not.” That was what made Benton pause. — The car ride was silent. No restraints. No theatrics. Just tinted windows, smooth roads, and the growing realization that he had crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. The estate sat on the city’s edge—stone, glass, restraint. Wealth without noise. Power without performance. Inside, the air smelled of polished wood and age. Not new money. Old systems. A woman entered the hall. Her heels struck the floor with measured precision

Warmth clung to Benton’s coat as the glass doors slid shut behind him. The hotel lobby gleamed—quiet, controlled, watchful. Conversations dipped and resumed in measured tones. No one stared outright, but he felt it. The shift. The attention. The unspoken question of why someone like him had been escorted in instead of thrown out. Then a laugh cut through the air. Sharp. Disbelieving. Margaret Tyson turned from the reception desk, her expression twisting as her gaze locked onto Benton. For a heartbeat, she simply stared—taking in his presence, the way security had parted for him, the fact that he was inside. Something ugly flared behind her eyes. “So,” she said slowly, voice carrying. “They let you in.” She stepped closer, heels striking marble like punctuation marks. Her gaze dropped deliberately to his clothes, then lifted again—measuring, judging, deciding. “Nobody in their right mind would give you an Amex card,” Margaret said coldly. “So there are only two explanations. Eit

The moment Benton stepped into the suite, Old Charles rose to his feet. The movement alone shifted the room. The manager, who had been mid-conversation, stiffened and followed immediately, pushing his chair back so abruptly it scraped the floor. Whatever authority he carried outside these walls folded inward the instant Benton crossed the threshold. “We’ve been expecting you,” Old Charles said calmly. The manager lowered his gaze, posture uncharacteristically reserved. He approached Benton with careful steps, as though standing too close without permission might be a mistake. “Sir,” he said, voice steady but deferential, bowing his head slightly—a courtesy he rarely offered anyone. Old Charles chuckled softly. “You see? There’s nothing to fear.” The manager remained rigid, hands held close to his sides, eyes flicking briefly to Old Charles before returning to Benton. It was clear—one wrong move here could cost him far more than a position. All of it felt surreal. Benton blinke

“You’d be more pathetic than this by the time I’m done dealing with you.” Avery rolled her eyes, arms crossed, chin tilted toward the director as if the verdict had already been written. The director glanced at her, brow lifting slightly. “Is he the thief you reported?” “Yes, Director,” Avery replied coolly. Her gaze flicked toward the elevator, anticipation humming beneath her composure. She pictured security dragging Benton away. Managers whispering apologies. Doors closing behind him forever. Harris leaned against the doorframe, scrolling through his phone with lazy satisfaction. He didn’t bother looking up. “Well,” he drawled, “that’s the thief? I expected someone… grander.” He chuckled. “Turns out it’s just a broke nobody who can’t afford water in here, yet somehow thought he could swipe a premium card.” Benton didn’t look at him. His attention remained on the director. Harris dragged a chair forward and dropped into it. “You should’ve said something, Benton. We’d have p