The morning after the wedding, my husband and I were already packing for our honeymoon when I received a call from the registry office: “Sorry, we’ve checked your documents again… you need to come in to see this in person. Come alone—and don’t say a word to your husband…

With the evidence from the civil registry, my testimony, and the digital footprint Diane had carelessly left behind, the jury deliberated for less than two hours. Ryan and Diane were each sentenced to forty years in a federal penitentiary, without the possibility of parole. They would die in adjacent cellblocks.

As for me, the legal unraveling was surprisingly quick. Because the marriage was bigamous, it was legally null and void from the very beginning. I didn’t need a divorce. I obtained a complete annulment. Legally, the marriage had never existed. Ryan Carter was erased from my legal record as if he were nothing more than a bad dream.

I sold the house on Elm Street. I couldn’t live in a place where I’d been stalked. I bought a smaller, ultra-modern condo in a downtown skyscraper, a place with a concierge and keycard elevator access. A place where I felt totally, completely safe.

But there was a common thread that I refused to let go of.

The honeymoon tickets were non-refundable. Two first-class tickets to Bali and a two-week stay in a private villa on a cliffside.

I did not cancel them.

I am now sitting by an infinity pool, the warm Indonesian sun burning on my skin. The Indian Ocean stretches out before me, a vast, endless expanse of sparkling sapphire blue. The air smells of sea salt and plumeria flowers.

There’s an empty deckchair next to me. There’s no husband to bring me a towel. There’s no mother-in-law pretending to cry tears of joy at my happiness.

It’s just me.

I pick up the iced glass of mojito from the small teak table beside me. In my beach bag, safely tucked away in a zippered pocket, is my passport. Inside the passport is a folded piece of paper—the official court document declaring my annulment. A certificate of absolute freedom.

I thought I was marrying a dream, but I woke up in a nightmare. The problem with nightmares, though, is that they end the moment you open your eyes and fight back.

I raise my glass towards the empty ocean, towards the horizon and towards the blank page of my future.

“Cheers,” I whisper to the wind.

I take a sip, lean back into the warm cushions and finally, for the first time in months, I close my eyes and simply rest.