Charismatic Shoemaker Lloyd

Chapter 4

“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. Her posture was unyielding, her presence contained. Authority without excess.

She stopped in front of Benton.

“You’re the one who fixed the shoe,” she said.

“Yes,” Benton replied evenly. “That doesn’t make me your property.”

A flicker crossed her eyes.

“I’m Lisa Lloyd,” she said. “And no—it doesn’t.”

Old Charles inclined his head. “My lady.”

Her gaze returned to Benton. “Show me the shoe.”

He hesitated, then reached into his bag.

Lisa took it carefully, turning it in her hands. She examined the sole, the stitching, the weight distribution. Her fingers paused.

Her breath caught.

“This flaw,” she murmured. “It was never documented.”

Benton stiffened. “You knew about it.”

She looked up. “Only the man who designed it did.”

Silence pressed in.

“That shoe was created by my husband,” Lisa said. “Before he died.”

Benton’s jaw tightened. “Then I’m sorry for your loss. But this has nothing to do with me.”

“It does,” she said calmly. “Because the correction you made—no one alive should be able to do it.”

“That’s not true,” Benton shot back. “I’ve done this my whole life.”

“Not like this,” Old Charles said quietly.

Lisa set the shoe down. “We’ve been searching for years. When your design surfaced at the showcase, I suspected. This confirmed it.”

“Suspected what?” Benton demanded.

“That you’re connected to us.”

He laughed, sharp and humorless. “Connected how? You think talent equals blood?”

“No,” Lisa said evenly. “Blood leaves records.”

She slid a folder across the table.

Benton didn’t touch it.

“I don’t want money,” he said. “And I don’t want another family pretending I matter when it’s convenient.”

Lisa nodded once. “Then don’t take it.”

That stopped him.

“Instead,” she continued, “ask for proof.”

Benton’s eyes hardened. “Fine. Prove it.”

Old Charles opened the folder flat on the table.

Schematics.

Old. Hand-drawn. Precise.

Benton’s breath stalled.

They weren’t copies.

They were origins.

The same logic. The same instinctive corrections. The same design language he had never been able to explain—even to himself.

“These were drawn thirty years ago,” Lisa said quietly. “Before you were born.”

Benton stared.

“That’s impossible.”

“And yet,” she replied, “the samples submitted to Hulda confirm something else.”

She tapped the documents once.

“The Tyson Group plagiarized you.”

Benton’s fingers curled slowly.

“These aren’t ordinary schematics,” Lisa continued. “They were never meant to be replicated.”

She slid a black card across the table.

“Test us.”

Benton didn’t pick it up.

“What happens if I walk away?”

Lisa didn’t hesitate. “We keep searching. And you keep being hunted by people who already know your value.”

That landed harder than any inheritance.

“I’m not accepting anything,” Benton said. “Not yet.”

Lisa inclined her head. “Good.”

Old Charles allowed himself a faint smile.

Benton picked up the folder.

“I’ll verify this myself,” he said. “If you’re lying, I disappear.”

“And if we’re not?” Lisa asked quietly.

She held his gaze.

“Benton,” she said, her voice tight but controlled, “no one lies about losing a son.”

The room stilled.

“I’ve been searching for you for twenty-seven years.”

Her voice didn’t break.

That made it worse.

Benton’s eyes lifted—guarded, unreadable.

“Then,” he said slowly, “I decide what being a Lloyd actually means.”

Old Charles’s phone vibrated.

He checked the screen.

His expression darkened.

“They’ve started moving.”

Benton didn’t ask who.

Lisa stepped closer—careful, restrained, afraid of pushing too far.

“You can’t let them find you,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”

Benton studied her.

For the first time, someone elite wasn’t looking at him like an asset.

But like a risk.

“Are you really that concerned about me?” he asked.

Lisa didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.