The resort manager stood beside Sebastian’s table with a phone pressed to his ear.
“Please read him the name of the legal owner,” I repeated.
The manager glanced at the documents his staff had pulled from the wedding file.
Behind him, the jazz band continued playing, but the guests closest to Sebastian had stopped dancing.
“The cardholder and contracting party is Victoria Carter,” he said carefully.
“The presidential suite, reception deposit, transportation package, and honeymoon extension were all secured under Ms.
Carter’s account.”
Sebastian’s face lost its color.
He reached for the phone.
“Victoria?”
I heard Gloria ask what was happening.
Alyssa stood beside him, still holding her bouquet, her expression tightening as the manager quietly instructed his staff to suspend any additional charges.
“You need to fix this,” Sebastian said.
His voice was low, controlled, almost intimate—the voice he used whenever he wanted me to forget that he had created a problem.
“You married another woman tonight,” I said.
“There is nothing left for me to fix.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
I looked at the frozen image on my laptop: Sebastian kissing Alyssa beneath an arch of white roses.
“It is exactly what I think.”
A burst of static crossed the line as he walked away from the table.
“Listen to me.
The ceremony was symbolic.
We can explain everything when I get home.”
“You exchanged vows in front of your entire family.”
“It wasn’t legal.”
That was his first defense.
Not that he loved me.
Not that the video was misleading.
Not even that he was sorry.
He believed the absence of a filed certificate erased the intention behind the altar, the gown, the rings, and the pregnant bride.
My attorney, listening through a conference line, sent me a message.
Keep him talking.
“Did you apply for a marriage license?” I asked.
Silence.
Then Sebastian said, “Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because you are already married.”
“It was handled.”
“What was handled?”
Another silence.
In the background, Gloria demanded that he hang up.
Alyssa asked whether the suite was still available.
The resort manager told someone that the card authorization had been revoked.
Sebastian lowered his voice.
“I thought the divorce paperwork had gone through.”
No divorce paperwork had ever been prepared, filed, served, or discussed.
He was inventing a legal process in real time because he did not know what evidence I already possessed.
My attorney typed another message.
Ask who prepared it.
“Which lawyer filed our divorce?” I asked.
“I don’t remember the name.”
“You don’t remember the lawyer who supposedly ended your eight-year marriage?”
“Victoria, stop.”
“Which court?”
He hung up.
For the first time that night, my hands began to shake.
Not because I doubted myself, but because the numbness was wearing off.
