Chapter 2 - The Door That Should Have Stayed Locked
I woke up because my apartment door moved.
Not opened.
Moved.
A slow, careful movement.
The kind of movement made by someone who did not want to be heard.
For a few seconds, I stayed completely still.
My body understood the danger before my mind accepted it.
The room was dark.
The only light came from the street outside my bedroom window.
Rain covered the glass.
The same rain that had followed Noah Moretti into my shop two nights earlier.
I listened.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No sound of someone searching through my apartment.
Just silence.
A silence that felt wrong.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand.
My fingers shook.
I hated that.
I hated feeling afraid inside the place that was supposed to be mine.
The apartment was small.
One bedroom.
One kitchen.
One living room that still contained my father's old wooden chair because I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.
It wasn't a luxury place.
It wasn't impressive.
But it was home.
And someone had entered it.
Without breaking the lock.
I slowly got out of bed.
My feet touched the cold floor.
I grabbed the heavy metal lamp beside my bed.
Not because I thought it would protect me.
But because holding something made me feel less helpless.
I walked toward the bedroom door.
Every step felt louder than it should have.
The hallway was empty.
The living room was dark.
The front door was slightly open.
My heart stopped.
I knew I had locked it.
I always locked it.
My father had taught me that when I was ten.
"People think locks keep bad people out," he once told me while fixing the old deadbolt.
"They don't."
I had laughed.
"Then why have one?"
He looked at me seriously.
"Because good people deserve to know when someone tries to come in."
I stared at the damaged lock.
Someone hadn't tried.
Someone had succeeded.
I walked closer.
The door had no scratches.
No broken wood.
No signs of force.
Whoever entered had either picked the lock...
or already had a key.
That thought made my stomach turn.
I stepped outside into the hallway.
Nothing.
No one.
Just the sound of rain from the stairwell window.
I checked every room.
Closet.
Bathroom.
Kitchen.
Nothing.
But something was different.
Something small.
Something someone else would have missed.
My sewing box was open.
I froze.
I kept my sewing box beside my desk.
Inside were my father's old tools.
The scissors he had used for thirty years.
His measuring rulers.
His handwritten notes about fabrics.
Things that had no value to anyone else.
But everything to me.
I walked toward it.
The scissors were gone.
Not stolen.
Moved.
Placed carefully on the table.
Next to them was a small piece of black fabric.
I picked it up.
My fingers tightened.
It wasn't from my clothing.
It wasn't from anything in my apartment.
It was expensive material.
The kind used for custom suits.
The kind I worked with every day.
I turned it over.
There was something stitched into the edge.
A single letter.
M.
My first thought was Noah.
I hated that my mind went there immediately.
I hated that his name appeared before anyone else's.
Because Noah Moretti had been the strangest customer I had ever met.
But strange did not mean dangerous.
I wanted to believe that.
I needed to believe that.
The next morning, I opened my shop three hours later than usual.
I had not slept.
Every sound outside my apartment had made me sit up.
Every car passing beneath my window had made me look.
I kept telling myself I was being paranoid.
That someone had broken in for money.
That the fabric was meaningless.
That the letter meant nothing.
Then I saw the black sedan parked across the street.
I knew it immediately.
Not because I had seen it before.
Because it belonged to the same world Noah Moretti came from.
Two men sat inside.
Watching.
I stood behind the front counter and pretended to organize receipts.
They did not move.
They did not enter.
They simply watched.
My father used to say people revealed themselves through patience.
Anyone could pretend to be kind for five minutes.
Anyone could smile.
Anyone could make promises.
But waiting showed intention.
And those men were waiting.
The bell above my door rang.
I looked up.
My breath stopped.
Noah Moretti walked inside.
Not wearing the expensive suit from before.
Not dressed like a businessman.
Today he wore a black coat over a dark shirt.
His expression was colder.
More serious.
He looked around the shop.
Then at me.
"You were followed."
It wasn't a question.
I crossed my arms.
"Good morning to you too."
His eyes narrowed.
"Lyra."
The way he said my name made me uncomfortable.
Because it sounded like concern.
And concern from a man like him was dangerous.
"Why are your men watching my shop?"
"They aren't mine."
I looked toward the window.
"Then whose are they?"
Noah didn't answer.
That scared me more than if he had.
I walked toward him.
"You need to explain something."
He stayed silent.
"Someone entered my apartment last night."
The expression on his face changed.
Not surprise.
Not confusion.
Anger.
Real anger.
"Did they hurt you?"
"No."
"Did they touch you?"
I paused.
The question sounded protective.
But there was something darker underneath.
Something possessive.
"No."
His jaw tightened.
"Show me."
"Excuse me?"
"Your apartment."
I stared at him.
"You don't get to walk into my life because you feel responsible."
His eyes locked onto mine.
"Maybe I am responsible."
The words landed harder than I expected.
"Why?"
Silence.
A long silence.
Then he looked away.
That was the first time I saw something human beneath the control.
Fear.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But real.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Before he could answer, the shop door opened.
Paulie entered.
His face was different.
No tired expression.
No jokes.
No casual attitude.
Just urgency.
"Noah."
Noah turned.
Paulie looked at me.
Then back at him.
"We have a problem."
"What kind?"
Paulie lowered his voice.
"The person who entered her apartment wasn't looking for money."
The room became still.
I felt cold.
"What were they looking for?"
Paulie hesitated.
Noah answered.
"Me."
I laughed once.
But there was no humor in it.
"You broke into my life, and now someone is breaking into mine because of you?"
Noah accepted the accusation.
That bothered me.
A lot.
"Lyra."
"No."
I stepped away.
"I don't know what game you're playing, but I don't want to be part of it."
"You already are."
The honesty in his voice made me angry.
"Because you asked me if I had a boyfriend?"
"No."
His eyes hardened.
"Because someone wants to hurt you to get to me."
I looked at him.
For the first time, I didn't see the powerful man everyone feared.
I saw someone who knew exactly how dangerous his world was.
Someone who had finally realized that world had reached me.
My phone rang.
I looked down.
Unknown number.
Noah noticed.
"Don't answer."
I ignored him.
I answered.
Silence.
Then a voice.
A whisper.
"Lyra Mason?"
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Who is this?"
The voice didn't answer.
Instead, I heard something else.
A sound.
A familiar sound.
Click.
Open.
Click.
Closed.
My eyes slowly moved toward Noah.
Because the person on the phone was holding a gold lighter.
May you like
Then the voice whispered:
"You should ask Mr. Moretti what happened to your father."
