Charismatic Shoemaker Lloyd

*Charismatic Shoemaker Lloyd *

Benton hammer tapped a nail into a wood, steady as a heartbeat. The quarter door swung open, and Benton’s rhythm faltered. An old man loomed in the doorway, his tailored grey suit a stark contrast to the quarter's dirt. His cold eyes pinned Benton like a bug under glass.

“Mr Tyson, I was about to head out with the sketch,” Benton said nervously.

“You fool. Put that hammer down,” Tyson commanded, his voice dripping with disdain. “Harris will be taking the shoes to the company.”

The words took a second to register in Benton’s head. Then the hammer slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.

“No. That’s not right,” Benton said, heart racing. “I worked on those shoes for months. You promised I’d—”

Tyson let out a dry, sharp laugh. “Promised?” He stepped closer. “You really thought this was your moment?”

Benton looked at his old ironed suits by the chair before trailing behind him with anxiety unable to tell what has changed.

“Don’t flatter yourself, street rat. Tell me, what did you really do aside from leeching off my family?”

His fingers curled into fists, dirt-stained nails digging into his palms. Benton grew up on the street with nothing, most of the times its the small fix of peoples shoe that sustained him along with side works, he had survived on mockery and stubbornness. Until he met Mr Tyson, the elite family had given him a roof, the first few months of the marriage was the happiest moment in his blue life, but their charity came with strings. As time went by marrying Avery felt like trading one cage for another.

“That’s not fair,” Benton said, his voice hoarse but defiant. “I worked hard for months on those designs but you betrayed me by stealing them!”

He lifted his gaze to his in-laws, who lounged on the leather sofa like royalty. His mother-in-law, Margaret, sipped her wine, her lips curling into a faint, dismissive smirk. His brother-in-law, Harris, leaned back, arms crossed, his eyes glinting with arrogant triumph.

Tyson’s lips curled into a smile, his voice dripping with a mocking surprise. “Stole? Don’t be so dramatic. We just polished them up and made them marketable. You should be thanking us.”

Harris walked towards Tyson with a briefcase, his polished shoes clicking on the splintered floor. He was decorated in a flashy suit, smirked as he held up Benton’s sketch. His manicured fingers toyed with the outline, like a cat batting at a mouse.

“Nice try, Benny,” Harris said, his tone oozing mockery. “These aren’t half-bad. People take me seriously because I studied abroad. Don’t worry, I will toss you a bone when the firm eats it up.”

“This is plagiarism.” Benton said sharply.

“We refined it,” Tyson said. “You’re lucky we didn’t burn that ragged book you call a portfolio.”

“You have no right!” Benton's voice erupted. “You copied my work!”

“Lower your voice, Benton,” Margaret said, her tone icy. “You're embarrassing yourself. And honestly, what did you expect? You're not exactly... business material. Harris has the resources, the connections. You? You're just useless.” She waved a manicured hand, as if dismissing a speck of dust.

Benton’s blood boiled. Harris, with his fancy fashion degree, had never designed anything half as good. The first time he met Benton and his designs he became filled with jealousy by how an illiterate could pull such unique styles.

Benton's jaws clenched so hard that his teeth ached and his eyes blurred with stings of unshed tears. He wanted to scream, tear the designs to shreds but what would it change? They held all the cards— money, influence and the law.

“You think I’m just a charity case,” he muttered.

“You are,” Margaret said with a shrug. “You married up. Don’t forget that.”

Benton’s throat tightened.

“I never asked for your charity,” he snapped. “All I ever wanted was a chance. A fair one.”

Tyson tilted his head. “And that’s your mistake. Fairness doesn’t exist in business. There’s only leverage. Power. Name one investor who’d bet on a shoemaker from the street.”

Benton, as if hit by a sledgehammer, lowered his voice. “But, we were supposed to present it together.”

“Partner up with a street dog like you? Wake up to reality.”

"You knew," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous tremble as he turned to Tyson. "You knew what those designs meant to me. I trusted you when I showed them to you. And you just... took them."

Tyson shrugged, unfazed. "Business is business, Benton. If you were serious, you'd have protected your work. Don't cry about it now."

The casual cruelty of it snapped something inside Benton. He lunged forward, slamming the sketchbook onto the table with a thud that rattled the wine glasses. "These are mine!" he roared, his voice breaking with the weight of his pain. "My ideas, my work, my chance! You had no right to take that from

me!"

Margaret gasped, clutching her pearls, but Tyson just chuckled, leaning forward with a predatory glint.

"And what are you going to do about it, huh? Sue us? With what money? You can't even afford your own rent."

Tyson waved a hand, dismissing him like a fly. “Don’t whine. It’s settled. Harris takes the credit, and you play errand boy.”

The truth of it hit Benton like a punch to the gut. His knees buckled, and he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

Benton’s chest heaved, anger flaring. “You’re stealing everything I’ve got! I’ve done every job you’ve thrown at me, fixed your machines, and cleaned your messes. Why take this?”

Tyson’s eyes glinted with cruel amusement. “Because you’re nothing without us. You think you’re special? Hundreds of elites would grovel to marry Avery. You’re lucky we let a piece of shit like you near her.”

“Pathetic,” Harris added, standing shoulder to shoulder with Benton. “Know your place and go back to your hole, streetdog. Leave the big leagues to me.”

Benton’s grip tightened on the table, anger surged, hot and wild, but it was drowning in a tide of helplessness. He wanted to lunge, to smash Harris’s smug face, but Tyson’s presence loomed like a storm cloud.

The old man ran the Tyson Vorne Company, a luxury footwear empire with an iron grip. Suppliers, rivals, even his own family bowed to him. Benton, with his patched clothes and no last name worth mentioning, was a speck in Tyson’s world.

But those shoes weren’t, They were his fight, his proof he wasn’t nothing. He followed them outside. The estate’s wealth mocked his quarter, his dreams.

“Please, Mr Tyson.” Benton said, hating the plea in his voice. “I have followed every order. Let me present my work. I can make more designs, better ones, if this goes well.”

Tyson turned, his laugh sharp and cutting. “More? You think you’re a designer now? Start sketching, fool. Maybe I’ll let you sweep the factory floor for your trouble.”

Benton’s face burned. Sweep the floor? For his masterpiece? “Harris will fumble the pitch,” he said, desperate. “He doesn’t get the sketch like I do. The investors will see through him.”

Harris chuckled, adjusting his tie with a flourish. “Oh, Benny, you’re adorable. I’ll wing it,” Harris said with a smug grin. “I’ve got Avery. She’s landing today. She’ll handle the smart talk. I’m the face. You’re... what? Our driver?”

Benton’s breath caught. Avery. He hadn’t seen her in months, not since she left for her studies abroad. Her smile had kept him going, her quiet encouragement in the quarter his only light. But now she was part of this? Taking credit for his work? The betrayal cut deeper than Harris’s taunts.

“Avery is in on this?” Benton was met with silence.

“You're lying,” he said, but his voice wavered, weak against the truth he could already feel settling in. He pictured Avery's smile, her gentle encouragement, and now it all felt like a mask. How long had she been playing him? How many nights had she watched him sketch, knowing she'd betray him?

Margaret raised an eyebrow, her expression almost pitying. "Grow up, Benton. Avery is one of us. She knows where her loyalty lies. You should be grateful she even puts up with you."

Had she been lying too?

“You’ll pick her up from the airport,” Tyson glared at him. “Get her to the company on time. Don’t screw it up. This is a big deal for Vorne Company.”

Harris slid into the driver’s seat of Tyson’s sleek car, tossing Benton a mock salute.

“Don’t cry too hard, errand boy. Will send you a link to the product launch press headline.”

The car sped off, gravel crunching under its tires. Benton stood alone, tears stinging his eyes. The car key in his pocket felt like a shackle, chaining him to Tyson’s orders. His designs, his future, were being paraded by a thief, and he was just the “piece of shit” left behind.