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Byron took the envelope, still in an obvious state of shock.
'Sit down and read it,' Celeste suggested, her voice sounding firm despite her insides being an utter mess. What would Byron do when he was told the rest? He already looked pole-axed.
Slumping down on to one of the sofas, he put his whisky down and shakily extracted the report from the envelope. Celeste filled the intervening minutes while he read the report by drinking her whisky, refilling her glass and drinking that as well. Slowly, the alcohol seeped into her system, bringing with it a false sense of calm.
Finally, Byron dropped the report into his lap, but kept staring down at the photograph for ages, running his fingers over it. Finally, he looked up at her, his face ashen.
'Gemma never showed me. this,' he said in an uncharacteristically subdued voice. 'Maybe I would have recognized you. But probably not, with those sunglasses on. And your face is so thin and drawn. Not as I remembered you ... ' He frowned down at the photograph again. 'I take it the baby you're carrying here was Gemma?'
'Yes,' she choked out.
'So you were able to have children back then, it seems,' he muttered, an angry color seeping back into his face. 'Whatever happened to make you barren must have happened after this.' His eyes snapped up, hard and glittering and accusing. 'One doesn't have to be a genius to guess what you
did. This hospital stay when you got back to Australia explains all. Clearly, babies did not fit into Celeste Campbell's lifestyle. One mistake was enough, so you made sure there wouldn't be another.'
'That's not true!' Celeste gasped. 'I would never do a thing like that.'
'No? From what I've heard and seen for myself, there isn't anything you wouldn't do, Celeste, to ensure your sex life fulfils all your very demanding expectations. An unwanted pregnancy would curtail your activities for far too long. So tell me about this man,' he went on savagely, jabbing at the photo with a furious finger. 'This Stefan you gave your child to. I don't believe that other rubbish. Where did you meet him? Why did you go to Europe with him? Why have a baby by him? Was it that he was simply so good in bed you got carried away one night and forgot to take precautions?'
Celeste stared at Byron, disbelief changing to dismay and despair. She should have known Byron would always believe the worst of her. It was par for the course. This time, however, something snapped inside Celeste and she couldn't even find a righteous anger to fight back with. Her normally rebellious spirit began draining from her and she swayed slightly on her feet. Fearful of actually collapsing, she turned and walked slowly towards the window, where she stood for a moment before turning to glance back over at a still scowling Byron.
'I did not give Stefan my baby,' she said in an empty voice. 'He stole her.'
'Bulldust!' Byron scoffed. 'No one could take anything from you, Celeste, unless you wanted them to.'
Celeste was too tired to stop the ghastly memories from rushing back, or in stopping the emotional devastation they always caused. 'I woke one day to find him packed and the baby's cradle already empty. He told me not to bother trying to find either him or the child because I never would.'
'And you didn't try to stop him?'
'Oh, yes .. .I tried.'
'And what happened?'
'He beat me to a pulp and left me there alone to die.'
There was no satisfaction in Byron's shocked gasp. Or any confidence that he now believed her. Neither did she really care any more.
'My mother can vouch for what I'm saying,' she continued in a dead, flat voice. 'She spoke to the Spanish doctors who treated me, and paid for the hospital bill in Barcelona.'
Celeste felt the tears welling up and she turned her face away, clutching at the curtains for support. 'I was taken into emergency surgery where, among other things, I was given a hysterectomy. I nearly died,' she admitted hoarsely. 'Occasionally, over the past twenty years, I wished I had .. .'
Celeste's head and shoulders drooped in defeat. For even if Byron believed her now, it wouldn't be enough. Underneath, she had been wanting more than his belief. She had been wanting his understanding and sympathy.
The unexpected feel of Byron's arms closing over her shoulders in what seemed to be a gentle, comforting gesture broke what little was left of her control.
'Oh, God,' she sobbed, and, whirling, threw herself into his arms. 'I'm telling the truth,' she cried against the broad expanse of his chest, tears streaming down her face. 'I swear to you .. .I'm telling the truth!'
