Once Was Ours

It had been three weeks since Alessandro Marchetti's return to New York, and his presence was already making quiet waves through the city's upper circles.

The Veritas League — an exclusive society of old money, elite legacies, and power brokers — didn't take long to send an invitation. The Marchetti name still held weight.

A black envelope. Gold wax seal.

Elegant. Unavoidable.

"You're expected to attend," his grandfather's voice echoed over the phone.

"Our presence matters."

Alessandro didn't argue. But he didn't pretend to be pleased.

A few blocks away, Bell Casanova stood in her living room holding the exact same envelope.

She raised a brow, lips curled into a small smirk.

"Still so dramatic," she muttered, sliding a finger beneath the seal.

The Casanova name still commanded respect in its own right. Even if Bell no longer spent her nights tangled in politics and society gossip, they hadn't forgotten her — or what family she came from.

Her mother offered to watch Enzo without hesitation.

"Go," she smiled. "You haven't had a night like this in a long time."

....

Bell stood in front of the mirror, wrapping the black evening gown over her curves, the fabric hugging her body like it had been made for her.

Gone was the girl with soft edges and youthful limbs.

This was a woman.

Her figure full, confident.

Her hair long and glossy, curled softly around her shoulders.

Her nails manicured. Her lips a painted nude rose.

Diamond earrings. A delicate chain around her neck.

Eyes lined sharp enough to kill.

She applied her perfume — soft, floral, expensive — then stepped into her heels, checking herself once before turning out the light.

.....

Alessandro buttoned the last cuff of his black dress shirt, sleeves clean beneath his tailored black suit. No tie. No embellishments.

He never liked overdoing it — the Marchetti name spoke loud enough.

His cologne was sharp, clean. His shoes polished like glass. His expression unreadable, jaw set tight.

He hated these events.

All masks. All power plays.

But he would go.

Because Marchettis always showed up.

And they never showed weakness.

…..

Neither of them knew what the night would bring.

Neither of them knew who would be standing across the ballroom floor.

But fate had impeccable timing.

...

The event was held in a grand hall off Fifth Avenue — chandeliers like stars above, champagne flowing, and music played by a live quartet tucked into the corner of the room. The air buzzed with wealth, reputation, and names that had shaped the city for generations.

Bell stepped through the marble entrance and was immediately enveloped.

Kisses to both cheeks. Perfumed embraces.

Strangers who greeted her like old friends.

"Isabella Casanova," someone cooed, linking arms with her.

"You look divine."

"Your company's been making headlines. Your father must be proud."

"Tell Massimo and Sofia I said hello."

"We must get lunch — I'll have my assistant reach out."

She smiled graciously, nodded in practiced rhythms, moved through the crowd like someone born to it.

But even now — heels clicking over polished floors, a flute of champagne between her fingers — she wasn't thinking about the event.

She was thinking about Enzo.

I'll stay an hour.

Two, tops.

Then she'd be back home, curled beside her son.

....

On the far end of the room, Alessandro Marchetti had just arrived.

The moment he stepped inside, heads turned. Conversations hushed, then resumed with new fervor. He was Marchetti royalty, and everyone knew it.

He didn't smile. Didn't pose.

He greeted a few key people with nods, shook hands with others.

"You'll be taking over the Fifth Avenue tower, correct?"

"They say you're sharper than your grandfather."

"Your return's been long anticipated."

Alessandro accepted the praise, the curiosity, the scrutiny — all without flinching. He didn't care for the flattery. He was here to be seen. That was all.

And no, he hadn't thought much about the possibility of her being here.

He hadn't been looking for her.

He had told himself that part of his life was dead.

...

Bell turned, laughing politely at something meaningless, about to excuse herself from a small group of women.

And then she saw him.

Alessandro.

Time didn't freeze.

It sharpened.

Her breath caught in her throat, but only for a moment — and then the heat hit her. Rage. Pain. Disbelief. Not because it was him — but because he looked at ease.

He looked whole.

Black suit, hands tucked casually into his pockets, head tilted slightly as he spoke to a man she didn't recognize. His jaw was sharper, his posture straighter. He looked like wealth. Like power. Like someone who'd never broken down crying on a front porch or kissed her under an oak tree swearing he'd never leave.

He hadn't seen her yet.

Of course not.

He's not looking for me.

He never was.

And all she could think about was that message. The voice on the phone — the one that said he wanted nothing to do with her, or anything she might bring into his life.

...

Alessandro nodded through the conversation, barely listening, letting the practiced half-smile rest on his lips — the kind that said I'm polite, not interested.

He turned his head slightly, the way one does when they're scanning the room out of habit.

And then he felt it.

That unmistakable pull — like a presence before recognition.

His eyes locked onto hers.

Bell.

She was already watching him.

Not soft.

Not shy.

Not nostalgic.

Her gaze was sharp — angry, maybe. No, worse than that: hurt. Wounded, but hardened by time. There was memory in it too. Years of it. The kind that doesn't fade, only buries itself until it's dug up again.

He didn't move.

Couldn't.

But she did.

With no visible reaction — no tilt of her head, no sign of surprise — she turned away. Smooth, collected.

She plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray with a grace that bordered on cold, and disappeared into the crowd without looking back.

Like he was a stranger.

And for a long second, Alessandro just stood there.

Still holding his glass. Still breathing. But it felt different now.

Like the air had changed.

She saw me.

And she walked away.

...

The terrace was dimly lit, framed by flickering lanterns and the distant hum of the city below. Far above the chaos of traffic and life, it felt almost like another world.

Bell stood near the edge, one hand resting on the stone railing, the other clutching her champagne glass. Her curls fluttered slightly in the warm wind, and her face was turned away from the ballroom, from everything behind her — but her jaw was tight, her spine straight.

She hadn't cried.

She wouldn't give herself that.

He saw me. Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him know what he did.

She took a slow breath. Deep. Controlled.

She could still feel the look in his eyes — that flicker of something she couldn't name.

But it didn't matter. She wouldn't let it matter.

Behind her, the door opened.

She didn't turn.

Didn't have to.

She felt him before he spoke.

"Bell."

The sound of his voice—

Lower. Rougher than she remembered.

Like time and silence had scraped it raw.

She turned, slowly. Her eyes scanned him, up and down. Not with longing — with calculation. Like she was memorizing the version of him who'd hurt her, who'd left her under that tree like she meant nothing.

"Marchetti," she said coolly, lifting her glass to her lips. "Didn't expect to see you here."

He blinked once. Just once. That name. From her.

Not Alessandro. Not Ale.

Just Marchetti.

He deserved that.

"I could say the same."

A beat.

Their eyes held.

"You look…"

He stopped. It wasn't the time for compliments.

"Different?" she offered, eyebrows lifting. "Older? Like I've been through hell?"

His jaw clenched, just slightly.

"I was going to say strong."

She huffed a quiet laugh. It wasn't kind.

"Yeah, well. Life has a way of making you strong when it doesn't give you a choice."

Another pause. Heavy. Weighted.

He stepped forward once, but she didn't flinch. Didn't move.

"Bell, I—"

"Don't."

Her voice was sharp now. Clear. "Don't say anything. You don't get to. Not tonight."

And just like that, she set the glass down on the railing beside her and turned to leave.

But as she passed him, their shoulders nearly brushed, and for the briefest second—

He breathed her in.

Still the same perfume.

Still her.

But not his anymore.