Once Was Ours

INT. NOIRA & ATELIER

The door burst open.

Bell looked up sharply from her desk, heart lurching.

Alessandro.

He stood there, shoulders tense, fury radiating off him like heat. Dressed in black, eyes wild, lips parted like the words were too hot to hold back.

"He's mine, isn't he?"

No greeting. No hesitation. Just truth, punched into the air.

Bell froze, spine straightening slowly.

"Alessandro—"

"Don't lie to me."

She didn't.

Because they both knew the answer.

"Yes," she said softly, guardedly. "He's yours."

His nostrils flared, like the confirmation physically hurt him. He took a step further in, the door shutting behind him with a click.

"How could you not tell me?" His voice was hoarse now. "You kept my son from me?"

Bell's breath hitched, but she stood her ground.

"I didn't keep him from you."

"You didn't even try—"

"I did!" she snapped, louder than she meant to. "I left you messages. I called you. Again. And again. And again."

He blinked. "I only ever saw one voicemail. One. And I never listened to it."

She let out a shaky breath, crossing her arms tightly.

"Well I did, I called, I tried, and someone else answered the last time I tried to call. A man. He said you didn't want anything to do with me. Or anything I'd bring into your life. That if I had any decency I'd stop calling."

Alessandro's mouth parted slightly, like she'd slapped him.

"I didn't say that."

"Well someone did, and they said it came from you." Her voice wavered, her hurt slicing through. "I was eighteen. I had no idea what to do. You'd left. Your number stopped working. No forwarding contact, no goodbye. I was alone."

He looked away, jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "My grandfather. He gave me a new phone the moment we got back to Italy. Said I needed to focus. Said the old one was taken care of."

His hands went to his hips, his chest heaving once.

"You said you left messages."

"Yes."

"The one I saw—" he met her eyes, voice lower now—"what did you say in it?"

She swallowed, lips trembling as her gaze dropped.

"I don't remember exactly. I was crying. I told you I needed to talk to you. That it was important. That it was the last time I'd try. And I begged you to pick up."

Alessandro turned from her suddenly, dragging his hand over his mouth.

That voicemail. The one he never played.

It had been sitting there for nearly seven years.

And it held the moment everything changed.

"I didn't know," he murmured. "I didn't know…"

He sounded broken now. And maybe Bell would've felt bad — once.

But not today.

"I know," she whispered, voice cool. "Neither did I."

And then she sank slowly back into her chair.

Because all the fire and fight in the world couldn't undo the years that had already passed.

....

INT. MARCHETTI PENTHOUSE

The door to his penthouse clicked shut behind him.

He didn't bother turning on the lights. The city glowed through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the sharp, modern interior.

He walked straight to the drawer.

The one he hadn't opened since the move.

It took him a second to find it — the old phone, dusty and dead. He plugged it into the charger, watching the black screen flicker slowly to life like it was waking from a coma.

And when it did…

Her name popped up just once.

1 voicemail.

Isabella Casanova.

His hand hovered for a moment. Then he pressed play.

"This is the last time message I'm leaving, Alessandro…"

Her voice was hoarse — not from crying, but from holding it in too long.

"I'm going to call… one more time…"

A shaky breath.

"I need to talk to you, please. I need to tell you… so please, please just answer me."

Her voice cracked on that second please.

"Please?"

And then — it cut off.

Abrupt. Final.

Like a door slamming shut.

Alessandro sat there in silence, the phone heavy in his hand. The weight of that last word — Please — burned in his chest like acid.

She had tried.

She had begged.

And he hadn't been there.

Because someone else decided what he should and shouldn't know.

Because he believed it when they said she had nothing left to say.

He buried his face in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. For the first time in years — Alessandro Marchetti felt small.