The name beside NEW OWNER was LYRA BENNETT.
For three full seconds, Lyra could not understand what she was reading.
She stared at the letters as if they belonged to another woman with her face, another woman whose hands were not calloused from fourteen-hour days and whose father’s shop was not one missed payment away from disappearing.
Then she looked up.
Noah Moretti stood across the cutting table in the charcoal suit she had finished for him.
The jacket fit perfectly across his shoulders.
The trousers broke cleanly over his shoes.
Even the small bloodstain beneath his vest had been hidden by her careful alterations.
His expression was harder to repair.
“Why is my name on this?” Lyra asked.
Paulie remained near the door, silent for once.
Noah placed his gold lighter on the table.
“Because the building belongs to you.”
Lyra let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.
“No, it does not.”
“The deed was recorded this afternoon.”
“I did not sign anything.”
“You did not need to sign the transfer.
You are receiving the property, not giving it away.”
Her eyes returned to the folder.
Beneath the deed were tax documents, lien releases, and a letter from a law office.
Every page looked official.
Every page carried dates, seals, and signatures she did not recognize.
The documents should have felt like rescue.
Instead, they felt like another hand closing around her wrist.
“You bought my father’s shop,” she said.
“I bought the building.”
“And put it in my name without asking me.”
“Yes.”
His calm answer made her angrier than a denial would have.
“You had no right.”
“The owner defaulted on his loan.
The bank took control of the property six weeks ago.
Tomorrow morning, they intended to sell it to an investment company that planned to empty the ground floor.”
Lyra’s throat tightened.
She had known the rent was late.
She had known the business loan was in trouble.
She had not known the entire building was already being prepared for sale.
Noah continued.
“The new buyer would have canceled every month-to-month lease, including yours.
By noon tomorrow, there would have been a padlock on that door.”
“And you found all of this because you stole one letter off my table?”
“I read enough to know something was wrong.”
“So you investigated me.”
“I investigated the building.”
“My finances were inside that building.”
His jaw shifted.
“Yes.”
There it was again—that infuriating refusal to soften his choices with excuses.
Lyra pushed the folder toward him.
“Take it back.”
Noah did not touch it.
“I cannot.”
“You own half the West Side.
You can do anything you want.”
“I owned this building for three hours.
