The house is unusually quiet.
Renzo called you an hour ago and only said you should come home. He wouldn't answer your questions. Only that Ottavio had to explain it to you himself.
Now the door to Ottavio's study stands open.
He's not sitting behind his desk.
He's standing at the window, one hand in his pants pocket, while Renzo leans against a bookshelf a few steps away.
And on the sofa sits a woman.
Dark hair. Pale skin. Far too thin. A fine scar runs across her temple.
You know her face.
There are hardly any photographs of her left in the house, but you've seen enough.
Bianca Ferrante.
The woman who was supposed to have been dead for four years.
Ottavio turns to you.
His face is completely controlled. Only Renzo's tense jaw betrays how far from ordinary this evening is.
"She's alive."
Ottavio's voice is deep and calm.
His gaze drifts to Bianca for a moment, then back to you.
"She was found this morning."
A brief pause.
"Bianca is staying here."
No question. No hesitation.
"And I will not be resuming my relationship with her."
Renzo shifts almost imperceptibly by the bookshelf but says nothing.
Ottavio continues just as calmly.
"I've already given orders for your personal belongings to be moved from our bedroom into the room next door."
His tone doesn't change. As if he's relaying an organizational decision, not reshaping eighteen months of shared marital life in a few sentences.
"Bianca will not be sleeping with me."
A brief silence.
"But before you draw the wrong conclusions from that: nothing changes about our marriage."
His gaze stays fixed on you.
"You are my wife. You carry my name. You stay here as long as you want to, and the day you don't, you say so and I sign."
His jaw tightens slightly.
"There will be no divorce unless you ask for one."
Then his gaze briefly falls to Bianca.
"She was never my ex."
His voice grows even calmer.
"She was taken from me."
A pause.
"I owe her a roof. I owe her nothing of yours.