Charismatic Shoemaker Lloyd

Chapter 5

The parking garage was cold.

Concrete swallowed sound the way wealth swallowed truth—efficiently, without witnesses. Benton’s footsteps echoed once, twice, then faded as he slowed, tension settling into his shoulders.

“Young master.”

Old Charles hurried after him, breath uneven, his polished shoes skidding slightly against the oil-stained floor. For once, the old man’s composure cracked.

“You shouldn’t have left like that,” he said, lowering his voice instinctively. “Things are already… moving.”

Benton stopped.

Slowly, he turned.

“Stop calling me that.”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

Old Charles froze, then straightened, smoothing his coat like a man bracing for impact. “Very well,” he said carefully. “Benton, then.”

Benton’s jaw tightened. “Say what you actually mean.”

A pause.

Old Charles glanced toward the entrance of the garage, then back at Benton. His eyes held something unfamiliar—unease.

“You were seen,” he said. “Leaving the estate. Not by us.”

That did it.

Benton’s expression hardened. “Who.”

Old Charles didn’t answer immediately.

“That’s what I thought,” Benton said flatly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the black card, and flicked it across the hood of a nearby car. It slid, spun once, then stopped at Old Charles’s feet.

“I don’t want it.”

Old Charles didn’t pick it up.

“Whether you want it or not,” he said quietly, “you’re already in.”

Benton laughed—short, humorless. “You people really love pretending choice exists.”

“You walked away from safety,” Old Charles replied. “That was a choice.”

“No,” Benton said. “That was survival.”

Silence pressed in around them, thick and uncomfortable.

“You think money scares me?” Benton continued. “I’ve been poor my whole life. I survived worse than this.”

Old Charles finally bent and retrieved the card, holding it loosely between two fingers like it carried weight beyond plastic.

“This isn’t about money,” he said. “It’s about visibility.”

Benton’s eyes flicked up. “Explain.”

Old Charles hesitated.

That hesitation was answer enough.

Benton stepped back. “I’m done for tonight.”

“You shouldn’t go back to the shop,” Old Charles said quickly.

Benton smiled—but there was no warmth in it. “Too late.”

—

The quarter greeted him like an old wound.

Same cracked pavement. Same buzzing neon signs. Same stares that lingered a second too long. The street didn’t care who you were—it only remembered what you used to be.

Benton unlocked his shop and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

The silence felt heavier than usual.

He didn’t turn on the lights.

He sat on the stool, elbows on his knees, the dark pressing in. His gaze drifted to the workbench.

The shoe.

It sat there untouched, polished to perfection.

His chest tightened.

Something about it felt… wrong. Not broken. Not damaged.

Waiting.

Benton reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed the leather, a pressure slammed into his skull.

Not pain.

Memory.

The smell of metal.

Blood—sharp and hot.

A man’s voice shouting his name.

Then—

Darkness.

—

He woke gasping, sweat slick against his skin.

The shop lights flickered.

His heart pounded violently against his ribs as he forced himself upright. The shoe lay where he’d left it. Harmless. Silent.

He wiped his face with shaking hands.

“Get it together,” he muttered.

But the unease didn’t fade.

He grabbed the shoe and shoved it into his bag.

If there were answers, they weren’t here.

—

The Pendergast Six-Star Hotel rose like a monument to excess.

Gold light spilled onto snow-dusted pavement. Benton’s breath fogged as he approached, coat thin against the cold.

Two bouncers stepped forward immediately.

“Membership.”

Benton stopped.

“I’m meeting someone.”

The taller guard’s expression didn’t change. “Membership.”

Benton exhaled through his nose and reached for his phone.

Before he could dial, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Well, if it isn’t the embarrassment himself.”

Margaret Tyson.

She swept toward him wrapped in fur and disdain, eyes gleaming as if fate itself had handed her entertainment.

“I thought you’d crawl back to your hole after today,” she said. “Guess humiliation didn’t take.”

Benton didn’t respond.

That only irritated her more.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” She looked him up and down. “You think showing up here makes you relevant again?”

“I think,” Benton said calmly, “you talk too much.”

Gasps rippled nearby.

Margaret’s lips thinned. “You’re freezing out here because you don’t belong inside.”

“Funny,” Benton replied, pulling out his phone. “I was just thinking the same about you.”

She laughed sharply. “Go on then. Call whoever you like.”

He did.

“Old Charles,” Benton said when the line connected. “I’m at Pendergast.”

A beat.

“Good,” Old Charles replied. “Stay where you are.”

Margaret leaned closer. “Ordering your imaginary butler to save you?”

Benton lowered the phone. “You should step back.”

“Or what?”

Benton didn’t answer.

Thirty seconds later, the mood shifted.

Security stiffened. Heads turned.

A black sedan rolled to a stop at the curb.

Doors opened.

People moved.

Fast.

The head of security emerged, face pale, eyes scanning until they landed on Benton.

He straightened instantly.

“Sir,” he said, voice tight. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Margaret froze.

“What is this?” she demanded. “Do you know who I am?”

The man didn’t even look at her.

“Please,” he said to Benton, gesturing toward the entrance. “Right this way.”

Margaret grabbed his arm. “You can’t just—!”

“Ma’am,” the head of security said coldly, finally meeting her gaze. “You’re causing a disturbance.”

Her mouth opened.

“Escort her out.”

The words hit like a slap.

Benton didn’t look back as he was ushered inside.

—

Warmth swallowed him whole.

The lobby shimmered with quiet power. No gawking. No whispers. Just space.

He walked.

Behind him, chaos.