Once Was Ours

Sunlight poured through the massive windows of Alessandro's Manhattan penthouse — floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked the city from thirty floors up. The view was pristine. Expensive. Impressive.

But the space inside felt like it hadn't been lived in.

No pictures on the walls.

No clutter on the counters.

Only the distant hum of the espresso machine breaking the silence.

Alessandro stood in the kitchen in black sweats and a fitted tee, barefoot on the polished floor. His hair was still tousled from sleep, but his eyes were wide awake — jaw tight, movements slow and deliberate.

He didn't sleep much.

Not last night.

He'd told himself the gala would be nothing — that he'd show face, shake hands, make his grandfather happy, and go home untouched.

He hadn't expected her.

Bell.

The name tasted like ash in the back of his throat. Or maybe something sweeter. He couldn't tell anymore.

He remembered the way her eyes cut through the crowd. The way she didn't hesitate to look at him. The way she turned and walked away without a word — like he meant nothing.

Like she hated him.

Maybe she should.

He sipped his espresso and leaned against the counter, eyes drifting to the untouched newspaper on the kitchen island, the unopened messages on his phone.

Everything was fine.

Everything was in control.

But it wasn't.

Not really.

She had looked different — stunning, yes, but older. Wiser. Untouchable. She'd been surrounded by people, but she looked like someone who'd built her own kingdom. Alone.

She was supposed to fall apart without me.

Instead, she became something else.

He set the cup down, not realizing he was gripping it too hard until the porcelain clinked sharply against the marble.

He stared out the window again.

The city looked the same as it did yesterday.

But it didn't feel the same.

Not now.

…..

The black car slowed to a stop in front of the Borsany & Co. building — all gleaming glass, steel, and prestige. Bell stepped out with her leather portfolio in one hand and a calm confidence in the other.

Her heels clicked sharply against the polished marble of the lobby.

She wore a fitted pencil skirt, sheer black stockings, and a thin ivory blouse that tucked in perfectly at her waist. Her braid was sleek and pulled tight, a few soft strands framing her face. Her makeup was delicate — dewy skin, soft definition around her eyes, and just enough gloss to catch the light. Small gold hoops, a bracelet. Understated. Intentional.

She didn't dress to impress. She dressed like someone who already knew she belonged in the room.

This isn't about proving myself anymore, she thought as she passed reception. This is about growth. Expansion. Power.

The elevator ride was smooth and silent.

Floor 47.

She stepped out, greeted warmly by an assistant waiting at the glass doors.

"Miss Casanova, welcome. We're so glad to have you. The partners are assembling now — would you like water? Espresso?"

"Water's fine," she replied with a smile, her tone polite but efficient.

The office was breathtaking — minimalist and modern, with pieces of art Bell immediately recognized as rare. So this is how they flex, she thought. Subtle. Old money. Quiet domination.

She was led into a private conference room with soft lighting, leather chairs, and tall windows that made the city seem like part of the architecture.

She took a seat at the table, crossing one leg over the other. Her leather folder sat in front of her, a pen already clipped neatly to the side. Everything in its place. Everything ready.

One or two executives entered — polite nods, murmured greetings. She stood to shake hands, poised and smooth.

"I've read about Noira & Atelier," one of them said with a smile. "What you're doing with your sustainability division is remarkable. Smart. Needed."

"Thank you," Bell replied, her smile tight but genuine. "It's been a labor of love. And I've got more to build."

"Well, you've caught the right attention. Our managing director was personally interested in this meeting."

Bell tilted her head, curious.

"Oh?"

"Yes," the exec said, glancing toward the door as it began to open. "He should be joining us now—"

The door swung open with a soft click.

Bell's heart stopped.

Because walking in, tall and collected in a charcoal suit, was Alessandro Marchetti.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't falter.

He looked right at her.

And the room was suddenly, terrifyingly, small.

...…

Bell didn't blink.

Didn't move.

Didn't breathe, for a second too long.

But her expression never cracked.

Alessandro's gaze found her instantly — sharp, unreadable. A flicker of something moved behind his eyes: disbelief… or memory. He masked it quickly.

"Miss Casanova," he said evenly, moving to the head of the table like nothing in the world had shifted. "Pleasure to have you here."

His voice.

Lower than she remembered. Controlled. Crisp.

Too professional. Too distant.

Bell's fingers curled against the leather of her folder beneath the table. Her spine stayed straight, chin high. She nodded once.

"Likewise."

Just that. No more. No less.

She could feel the other executives glance between them, unaware of the hurricane that had just rippled beneath the surface.

Alessandro sat, buttoning his jacket as he did, and gestured smoothly to the assistant who was now distributing documents to each person at the table.

"Let's begin."

And so they did.

Bell spoke when prompted, presenting Noira & Atelier's recent campaigns, highlighting their artisan partnerships, sustainability initiatives, and rising international visibility. Her voice was smooth — a practiced, velvety cadence. Her slide deck was polished. Her metrics, bulletproof.

If Alessandro was shaken, he didn't show it. He leaned back, one hand resting beneath his chin, eyes never quite leaving her.

But he didn't interrupt.

Didn't question.

Just… watched.

When it was his turn, he spoke about Borsany's goals, the desire to merge old-world legacy with modern ethics, the value of Bell's design house and what it could mean for Borsany's future expansion.

"We're looking to partner with brands that understand how to honor their origins," Alessandro said, voice calm and composed. "And turn them into something global. Meaningful. Enduring."

Bell met his gaze head-on.

"I've done that," she replied smoothly. "Without anyone's help."

Silence followed. Brief, but weighted.

One of the execs chuckled lightly, trying to smooth over the tension they couldn't name.

"And you've done it beautifully," he said. "Which is exactly why this collaboration is such a strong match."

Alessandro nodded once.

"We'll need time to review internally. But I think there's potential here."

Bell offered a small, practiced smile.

"So do I."

As the meeting adjourned, chairs scraped quietly and handshakes were exchanged. One by one, the other partners filtered out, the conversation turning to elevator rides and lunch reservations.

Bell gathered her things slowly.

Her folder.

Her pen.

Her breath.

She didn't look at him.

Until—

One of the senior partners still lingering by the window turned to her with a warm smile.

"Before I forget," he said lightly, adjusting his watch, "how's the little one doing? Your son, right? I remember you mentioned him at the artisan gala last year."

Bell's breath caught for just a second.

Behind her, Alessandro stilled.

"He's doing great," she said smoothly, her voice wrapped in calm control. "Started at a new school this year. He's already charming his teachers."

She smiled — the kind of smile that made people think you were fine. Even when you weren't.

"That's wonderful to hear," the man replied. "They grow fast, don't they?" He chuckled

"He is." Bell said with a small smile

A beat.

Then two.

Bell's eyes didn't flick toward Alessandro, but she felt the silence behind her shift.

Her folder closed with a soft snap. She slid it under her arm and gave a final nod.

"Gentlemen," she said, her tone all business again, "thank you for your time."

And then she left.

Alessandro was the last one standing.

Still at the head of the table. Still facing the glass. But his eyes were no longer focused on the skyline.

A son.

His mind ran back — fast, uninvited — to the year he left. The boy's in school already? Then he'd be at least five or six.

The math.

The memory.

And the ache.

No. No… it can't be.

But something had already lodged itself in his chest.

Something he couldn't ignore.