Once Was Ours

Alessandro hadn't seen Bell again.

Not since that meeting.

Not since she walked out, heels sharp, smile sharper.

But her voice still lived in his head —

"A son"

The words echoed when he sat in meetings.

They lingered in the silence between phone calls.

They crawled beneath every to-do list he crossed off.

He hadn't said anything aloud. Not to his assistant. Not to his grandfather. Not even to Marco, who he'd recently started hanging out with again.

But something had cracked open that day.

He stood now at the head of another boardroom table — one in the penthouse suite of the Marchetti private tower, overlooking Fifth Avenue.

His team flanked him, notebooks open, screens lit, ready to follow his lead.

He was giving orders. Speaking about contracts. Moving schedules forward.

But part of him was somewhere else.

"I want full specs by Monday," he said, his tone firm. "If they're not in my inbox by close of day, we'll be restructuring your role."

A quiet murmur of acknowledgment followed.

Someone scribbled furiously. Someone else gulped their espresso.

But Alessandro didn't flinch. He was in control. Always had been.

Except now…

He couldn't stop thinking.

Six years.

I left in June.

She would've found out just after…

He clenched his jaw slightly and pushed the thought away.

No. That's not possible. My grandfather said the messages… she was only trying to ask me why I left… it was never anything important

Except the phone — the one he hadn't looked through until recently— didn't have any messages left on it, and the history of any calls were gone. There was only one voicemail, one he hadn't brought himself to listen to.

The boardroom began to clear.

His assistant leaned in quietly. "The follow-up with Noira & Atelier is scheduled for Friday afternoon. Would you like to confirm?"

Alessandro didn't answer right away.

He nodded once.

"Yes. I'll be there."

But when the assistant left and the room emptied again, he remained standing there. One hand on the table. One hand gripping the back of the chair.

For a moment, he just stared at the skyline.

He'd built this life.

Been groomed for it.

Had everything under control.

And now?

Now a ghost from his past had walked into his boardroom in a pencil skirt and told him something he hadn't been ready to hear:

That maybe he'd left more behind than just her.

…..

INT. BORSANY & CO— FRIDAY MEETING

The conference room was bright and polished, late afternoon light spilling through the tall windows and reflecting off the glass tabletop. Bell sat poised with the other board members of Noira & Atelier, reviewing final agenda notes while the Borsany team filtered in one by one.

She looked composed, stunning in a fitted navy blue dress that hit just below the knee — the neckline modest, the tailoring sharp. Her straightened hair fell in a curtain over one shoulder, tucked neatly behind her pearl-studded ear. Her heels were black, classic. Her makeup — soft, effortless, precise.

She didn't look nervous.

She looked unbothered.

She wasn't.

"We're particularly interested in how your sustainability model can apply to luxury textiles," one exec was saying to her as he slid into his seat.

Bell nodded, her tone even. "We've already partnered with three artisan mills this quarter. All family-owned. Transparent labor and regenerative sourcing. Our data projections for the next fiscal year—"

The door opened.

And he walked in.

Alessandro.

She saw him before she felt it — that tight pull in her chest, the one she thought she'd shaken. He was in a black button-down and tailored grey suit, no tie, hair slightly tousled like he hadn't touched it since morning. Sharp. Effortless. Cold.

Bell's voice trailed off midsentence.

She didn't look at him — not directly — as he moved to the head of the table and greeted the room with a nod.

"Thank you all for coming."

His eyes flicked once to her, unreadable.

Bell gave the smallest polite smile.

"Mr. Marchetti."

"Miss Casanova," he returned, his voice smooth but clipped.

That was the only time she let herself meet his eyes — and even then, it was brief. Then she looked back at her folder, turning a page she'd already read.

They got to work.

The meeting unfolded with quiet efficiency.

They talked logistics. Contracts. Distribution strategies. Product timelines.

Bell answered questions without hesitation. Her voice never cracked. She referenced figures, partners, and legal terms with the calm grace of someone who had built her own table and didn't need a seat at someone else's.

But she wouldn't look at him.

She couldn't.

Because every time he spoke — every time he said something like:

"We're interested in a five-year partnership. Provided the values are aligned…"

Or

"We want authenticity, not just aesthetics. That's what this brand represents."

…she felt something rise in her chest she hadn't invited. Not longing. Not grief.

Just weight.

Like a thread being pulled that she couldn't cut clean.

.....

Eventually, a moment came when the rest of the board stepped out to take a call — leaving only Bell, still seated, reviewing notes — and Alessandro, standing at the far end of the table, one hand in his pocket.

The silence was immediate.

Heavy.

He didn't move at first. Just looked at her.

Then:

"A son?" he said quietly, like he'd been holding the words too long.

Bell's breath caught. Her pen stilled.

She looked up slowly. No more pretending now.

Their eyes locked.

For the first time since that summer under the oak tree, there was no audience.

Just them.

Bell didn't answer right away.

She looked down at her folder, but she wasn't reading anymore. Her fingers pressed the edges, knuckles pale.

After a pause, she cleared her throat and said simply:

"Yeah."

The word dropped like a stone between them.

Alessandro stood still at the far end of the room, one hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, the other in his pocket. His gaze didn't move from her.

"You didn't mention that at the gala."

"Didn't think it was relevant," Bell replied flatly, flipping the page in front of her even though she wasn't reading it.

"But he was," Alessandro said. "To someone at that table, he was."

Bell looked up slowly, eyes sharp but tired.

"You want to talk about relevance?" she asked. "You left."

He flinched. Almost imperceptibly, but she saw it.

"That was seven years ago."

"Exactly," she said, voice still low. "So don't stand there like you're owed an explanation now."

Alessandro's jaw tightened, but he nodded once. He didn't speak again.

Bell exhaled through her nose and stood, gathering her things with the same precision she always did — smooth, efficient, composed.

"The next steps are clear. I'll have my team review the draft proposal by Monday. If there's anything else—"

"No," Alessandro said, straightening slightly. "That's all."

Bell nodded. Still not meeting his eyes. She walked out of the room, thanking the Borsany members outside the room.

...

Bell returned to her office in silence.

The sharp click of her heels down the marble hallway echoed less like confidence now and more like pressure. Not from the world — she'd long since mastered that — but from him.

The moment she closed the glass door behind her, she let out a long, steady breath. Her shoulders softened, just slightly.

She walked over to her desk, slid the leather folder into her drawer, and powered down her computer. Her gaze drifted to the framed photo of Enzo that sat near her monitor — his gap-toothed smile beaming up at her, crayon scribbles behind him, a bright red "Star of the Week" sticker still visible on his shirt.

Her lips softened into something like a smile.

"I'm coming, baby," she murmured.

She grabbed her keys, her bag, and shrugged on her coat. Her reflection in the glass pane caught her off guard for a second — the navy blue dress, the pearls, the straightened hair. She looked polished, impenetrable.

But under the surface, she was still reeling.

She hadn't wanted to talk about Enzo with Alessandro. Not like that. Not in that room, not with those eyes staring at her like they still had a right to anything.

But she didn't owe him answers.

He left.

And she had a son to pick up.

....

INT. BORSANY & CO

The conference room remained silent.

Alessandro hadn't moved since Bell left. He was still seated at the table, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes fixed somewhere between the skyline and the door she'd walked out of.

A son.

The word replayed again and again. Not shouted — whispered. Like it had been sitting in the room all along, waiting for him to hear it.

And Bell's answer…

"Yeah."

So simple. So final.

Her eyes, she had looked at him like she was giving him a warning. Like she was telling him to leave it alone. Don't go digging.

But it was too late.

He was already doing the math.

Six years. Maybe six and a half.

She would've found out in summer. Right after he left. Right after—

His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked near his temple.

Grandfather told me she reached out once, that it was nothing more than unnecessary drama and extra distractions—

He stood suddenly, the chair scraping quietly against the floor.

He ran a hand through his hair, breath tight.

He had to know. He had to be sure. He couldn't just let this go.

But he also knew Bell.

And she wasn't going to make this easy.