Charismatic Shoemaker Lloyd

Chapter 2

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 the phone into his pocket.

He stepped out of the car.

“Back already?”

The voice came from across the street—lazy, amused.

Thomas leaned against a stall, arms crossed, eyes sharp with interest. He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t need to. People nearby were already watching.

“Thought you’d moved into the mansion for good,” Thomas continued. “Guess even the Tysons know trash when they see it.”

A few low chuckles followed.

Benton didn’t respond. He unlocked the shop door and stepped inside, pulling it shut behind him.

The bell jingled softly.

Inside, the familiar scent of leather and glue wrapped around him. Tools lay exactly where he’d left them. Half-finished shoes waited on the bench, their clean lines and careful stitching standing in quiet defiance of everything else in his life.

He leaned both hands on the worktable and exhaled.

This place had never judged him.

He pulled his phone out again.

Avery’s message was still there.

He typed, erased, typed again.

Did you know?

Delete.

We need to talk.

Delete.

In the end, he sent nothing.

The doorbell jingled.

Benton looked up.

A man in a sharp suit stood just inside the shop, his presence immediately out of place. One shoe—expensive, scuffed only slightly at the heel—was held out in his hand.

“Fix this,” the man said. “Tomorrow.”

Benton didn’t move.

“The sign says closed,” he replied calmly.

The man glanced at the sign, unimpressed. “I have an important meeting. I’ll pay extra.”

He placed a thick wad of cash on the table, the bills crisp and deliberate.

For a moment, Benton simply stared at the money.

Then he slid it back across the table.

“Take it somewhere else.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You sure you want to turn down easy money?”

Benton met his gaze. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t shake.

“I’m sure.”

The man scoffed, left the shoe on the counter, and walked out without another word.

Benton stared at it. The craftsmanship was exceptional—balanced, intentional. Whoever owned it cared about more than appearances. With a quiet sigh, Benton traced the design once, then placed the shoe carefully into a drawer by his desk.

The bell jingled again.

Silence returned.

Benton sank onto the stool beside his workbench, rubbing his face slowly. His reflection stared back at him from a cracked mirror—tired, hollow-eyed, older than he felt.

Everything had been taken in one day.

His work.

His position.

His marriage—if it had ever truly been his.

A knock sounded on the door.

Then another.

“Benton.”

He froze.

The voice was familiar.

He stood slowly and opened the door.

Avery stood outside.

She looked flawless. Hair styled perfectly. Clothes elegant and expensive. There was no trace of travel fatigue on her face—no warmth in her eyes.

She stepped past him without waiting for an invitation.

“You didn’t come,” she said flatly.

“I was told you already arrived,” Benton replied.

Her lips pressed together. “The launch went well.”

He nodded. “I heard.”

“The investors were impressed. Father secured a collaboration with Hulda.”

The name landed like a quiet blow.

“That’s… big,” Benton said carefully.

“It is,” Avery agreed. “Which is why we need to think strategically.”

Something in her tone made his chest tighten.

“Avery,” he said softly, “did you know about the designs?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

That pause was louder than any slap.

“Yes,” she said at last. “I knew they’d use them. It was necessary.”

“Necessary for who?” Benton asked.

“For the family. For the company.”

“For you?”

Her eyes flickered—just briefly. Then they hardened.

“You don’t understand how this world works, Benton.”

He laughed quietly—not out of humor, but disbelief.

“I thought marrying you meant I was part of it.”

She turned away. “You were… temporary.”

The door opened behind her.

Tyson stepped inside, his presence commanding, final.

“This conversation is over,” he said. “Benton, you’ve served your purpose. And the Tyson Group has no use for you anymore. Avery is too soft-hearted to say it directly.”

He dumped a stack of papers onto the desk.

Divorce Agreement.

Benton exhaled slowly and looked between them.

“You’re divorcing me.”

Tyson nodded. “The papers are ready. You’ll sign them today.”

“And Avery?”

“She’ll be engaged next week.”

The words landed cleanly. Efficiently.

Avery didn’t look at him.

“You can leave with your dignity,” Tyson continued. “Or you can make this unpleasant.”

Benton straightened.

For the first time that day, his mind felt painfully clear.

She gestured, and a card was placed on the desk.

“One million,” Avery said. “Enough to start over.”

Benton stared at it.

Then he tore it cleanly in half.

“I don’t want your exit f*e.”

Tyson stepped closer. “Sign the papers.”

Benton did.

Each stroke of the pen was steady.

When it was done, Avery turned away without another word.

She walked out.

Tyson followed.

The door closed.

Benton stood alone in the shop.

The silence felt different now. Not heavy. Not crushing.

Empty.

From the drawer behind him, the shoe sat untouched.

Waiting.