"That's why she cried."
My chest pulled tight.
"Then—"
"But she'll adapt," Bianca cut me off, still gentle. "Kids are resilient. I'll stay with her, show her this place is safe. In a few days, she'll stop crying."
She turned, pulling part of the curtain back, blocking the direct sunlight from the crib.
"She needs quiet," she said. "Better not to have too many people in here disrupting things for now. Once she settles, mood stabilizes, then we can slowly introduce her to others."
"Others?"
"Like," Bianca paused, turning to face me, "your wife."
I watched her.
"Olivia wants to see her."
"I know," Bianca said, walking over, standing in front of me. "But she's fragile right now. If she visits and the baby cries, she'll blame herself more, get more anxious."
Her voice was soft, so gentle.
"Plus your wife—she's not in great shape postpartum, is she? I can see it in her complexion, her body. If she's handling the baby and she cries, it'll exhaust her more."
She tilted her head up, those brown eyes swimming with concern.
"Let her recover a bit, let the baby stabilize, then they can meet," she said softly. "Better for both. You think?"
I stared at her.
Those eyes full of sincerity and kindness.
Olivia's image surfaced—pale, skeletal, a breeze away from shattering.
Her current state really wasn't good.
If the baby cried, she'd spiral worse.
"You're right," I finally said.
Bianca smiled, gentle and elegant.
"I'll take good care of her," she said. "Trust me."
I looked at Bianca.
She stood there holding the baby, sunlight on her, warm, composed, flawless.
That's always been her.
Since forever. Knowing the right thing to say at the right time, arranging everything perfectly. Elders loved her, family respected her, and even servants listened better to her.
If it was her—
"Ezio?"
"Yeah?"
