Charismatic Shoemaker Lloyd

Chapter 8

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 blinked once, then took it in—the silence, the attention, the way power seemed to tilt toward him without him touching it. Old Charles had spoken of influence, of reach, of weight—but seeing it was different.

If a man like this could be reduced to restraint with a glance, then whatever stood behind Old Charles was not fragile. Not temporary.

Benton nodded once and moved to the table.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. He simply sat.

Only then did the manager carefully lower himself back into his seat.

Old Charles cleared his throat. “There is an opportunity prepared. In the southeast sector.”

Benton’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of his glass. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

Old Charles smiled faintly. “Coming here suggests you haven’t dismissed it either.”

For most of his life, Benton had been told who he was: a street dog, a charity case, disposable. Yet none of it had ever felt complete. His father’s disappearance, the sealed paths, the unanswered questions—it was as if someone had deliberately erased the trail behind him.

Until now.

“There’s something unusual about the way you work,” Old Charles continued. “Whoever taught you didn’t leave room for imitation.”

He reached into his briefcase and laid a folder on the table.

Inside were sketches. Technical drafts. Structural corrections.

Benton’s breath caught.

They weren’t copies.

They were familiar.

“This man,” Old Charles said quietly, turning the page to a blurred photograph of a mutilated body, “was the one who made the shoe you repaired.”

Benton’s jaw tightened.

“We believed him dead,” Old Charles went on. “And we believed everything he created died with him.”

The manager finally spoke, watching Benton closely. “Someone else was in the city during that same period. Posing as an investor. Your father was wary.”

Old Charles flipped another page. “There was an agreement signed. But it was never handed over.”

Benton’s gaze sharpened. “And now?”

“Now,” Old Charles said evenly, “someone is still looking for it.”

The room seemed to constrict.

“So someone’s after me?” Benton asked.

Old Charles slid the black card across the table—but didn’t push it into his hand.

“After whatever you’re connected to.”

Benton stared at the folder. The blood. The designs. The implication.

This wasn’t inheritance.

It was a hunt.

“You mentioned the shoe was incomplete,” Benton said slowly. “You think that was intentional.”

The manager inclined his head. “Your father was precise. If something was left unfinished, it was meant to be.”

Old Charles leaned back. “Tell us. When you touched it… what did you see?”

Benton swallowed.

Fragments surfaced—darkness, pain, the metallic stench of blood. A man collapsing. Hands pushing something away. Protecting.

“Enough,” Benton said quietly, forcing the images down. “I don’t have the full picture.”

“That’s fine,” Old Charles replied. “Neither do we.”

The meeting shifted after that. Logistics. Neutral talk. Controlled breathing.

But Benton’s mind stayed anchored to the image of blood on leather.

When it ended, Old Charles gathered the documents and smiled faintly. “We’ll speak again.”

Benton exited alone.

The halls outside were silent. Too silent. Entire floors cleared for a meeting that barely lasted an hour.

That was power.

Then—

“The street pig strayed too far.”

Benton turned.

Wine splashed across his shoulder as Avery stood before him, eyes red, fury rippling beneath her composed exterior.

He wiped the liquid away calmly.

“Why would I waste my time talking to you?” he asked.

Avery scoffed. “You accepted the divorce quietly. Now you show up here? Stop pretending.”

“I came to eat,” Benton replied flatly. “Your mother made a scene.”

Harris stepped closer, grinning. “Did you crawl in through the back door? Beg someone to let you clean toilets?”

Avery smirked. “At least he’d be useful with a mop.”

Benton let them talk.

Then he exhaled softly.

“You’re right,” he said. “The second floor is for people desperate to feel important.”

Avery frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re bluffing,” Harris snapped. “The real guests are upstairs.”

Benton handed the card to the receptionist. “This should cover tonight.”

The movement was small.

The reaction was not.

His arm was yanked back violently.

A slap cracked across his face.

“You thief!” Avery screamed. “You stole an Amex card, street rat!”

The room froze.

Benton’s head tilted slightly as his cheek burned.

He said nothing.

But his eyes lifted slowly,

And for the first time, doubt crept into Avery’s expression.