The receipt for the flight I had been forced to buy myself.

The registration record for Chloe’s luxury suite in Madrid.

And the itemized bank statement showing the charge for that suite, drawn from an account funded by my salary.

“Logan,” I said, and my voice carried clean across that silent dining room.

“You paid for your best friend’s luxury hotel room, during our honeymoon, using my money.”

Chloe went white.