Once Was Ours

Alessandro stood in the middle of his penthouse living room, the phone still in his hand. The voicemail Bell left — that cracked, desperate voice saying "Please… please just answer me…" — played on a loop in his head, like a ghost that refused to fade.

He hadn't spoken a word since it ended.

He couldn't.

Because everything he thought he knew had been shattered in under twenty-four hours.

Bell had tried.

She had called. Left voicemails.

And his grandfather — the man who had raised him like a son — had buried it all under the lie of "it's nothing important."

Important?

She had been eighteen and pregnant. Alone. Scared.

And he hadn't even known.

He sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, phone clutched in one hand as if it might burst into flame.

"Lorenzo…" he whispered aloud.

His son.

His son.

Six years old.

He tried to picture him — a small figure with Bell's eyes and maybe his hair. Did he laugh like her? Did he hate mornings like Alessandro used to? Was he already asking impossible questions and dreaming too big for his age?

What had he missed?

What hadn't he missed?

His fingers curled into a fist, pressing into his forehead.

"He should've known."

"He should've told me."

"He took that choice away from me."

The betrayal of it made him feel sick. For so long, Alessandro had trusted his grandfather without question. The man had shaped him, trained him, handed him power piece by piece. And now it all felt poisoned.

He had believed that walking away from Bell was the hardest thing he'd ever do.

He was wrong.

This — knowing he had a son out there, one he didn't get to name, or hold, or even meet — this was the real pain.

And Bell…

She had raised him. Alone.

No wonder she had looked at him the way she did. No wonder her voice shook between rage and restraint.

He'd thought she had shut him out.

But this whole time she'd thought he was the one who wouldn't answer, he was the one who had shut her out. And in a way he had.

And she had called. Cried.

Begged.

And he had never known.

Alessandro sat back and stared at the ceiling.

Everything felt like it was spinning — his world, his name, the Marchetti legacy.

It didn't matter what his grandfather thought. Or what he had planned for Alessandro.

Because somewhere out there was a boy — his boy.

And now that he knew?

There was no force in the world that could keep Alessandro from him.

...

INT. NOIRA & ATELIER— NEXT MORNING

The soft knock at her door came just after 9:00 a.m.

Bell didn't look up from her laptop.

"Come in."

The door opened, and silence followed.

A silence so weighted, so charged, she felt it in her bones before she even turned her head.

He was standing there. Again.

Alessandro.

He looked like he hadn't slept. His tie was gone, top button undone. The same tailored black coat. His expression unreadable — save for the storm in his eyes.

Her heart clenched, but her face didn't flinch.

"This is getting really old," she said flatly, closing her laptop. "You barging into my office."

He stepped inside, shut the door behind him. Slowly. Carefully.

"I need to talk to you."

"There's nothing left to talk about," she said sharply, stepping out from behind her desk. "You came yesterday. You asked. I answered. That should've been the end of it."

"It's not the end. He's my son."

Her breath caught, and for a second, the room tilted.

But she didn't flinch.

"And where were you when I needed you?" she asked, voice rising. "When I was eighteen and terrified and pregnant and alone?"

He didn't answer.

"You don't get to disappear for seven years and then come back saying 'he's my son' like you earned that title."

"I didn't know."

"You didn't want to know," she fired back. "You left me under that oak tree like I was nothing. And then a few weeks later, you vanished. No word. No number. No closure. Just gone."

Alessandro took a few steps closer, but she raised a hand, stopping him in place.

"We've been just fine without you," Bell said, voice trembling. "Enzo and I — we've built a life. One where he feels safe. One where I'm enough."

"You shouldn't have had to do it alone."

"But I did. And now you think you can walk in here, say a few words, and I'm supposed to just hand him over?"

His face twisted in frustration. "That's not what I'm asking—"

"Yes, it is. You don't realize what you're asking for. You weren't there for the late nights. The doctor visits. The nightmares. The first day of school. The scraped knees. The birthdays. You weren't there."

He said nothing.

She could see it now — in his silence. That realization was finally sinking in. But it didn't ease the ache inside her. The anger.

"He's not some obligation you can pick up because you suddenly feel guilty, Alessandro. He's a person. A child. My child. And everything I've ever done has been to protect him. Including protecting him from you."

That one landed.

He exhaled slowly, like he'd been punched in the chest. "I never meant to hurt you."

"But you did," she whispered. "You hurt both of us."

The office fell into a brittle silence. Only the low hum of traffic outside filled the void.

Finally, she stepped back, arms crossed, guarding herself.

"You don't get to decide this. Not anymore. If you want to be in his life, it's going to be on my terms. And even then, I haven't decided if I'm going to let you."

Alessandro looked down, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides.

"Then decide," he said quietly. "But don't do it out of anger at me. Do it for him."

And with that, he left.

Leaving the storm still swirling in Bell's chest — past, present, and everything in between.