"What is this?"
"Your bill, sir."
The waiter's hands trembled as he placed the leather folder on the table. Inside was a printed, itemized receipt that stretched nearly two full pages. Every single dish, every bottle of vintage wine, every ounce of caviar they had ordered for the past two hours was listed in detail.
Tristan's eyes dragged slowly down the page until they hit the total at the bottom.
"$45,800.00"
The entire VIP private dining room went dead silent. The laughter that had been bouncing off the walls only seconds earlier vanished like someone had cut the power.
And Tristan's face turned a violent shade of dark red. The veins in his neck stood out like cords. He looked up at the waiter with pure, murderous disbelief.
"What the fuck is this?" he asked, voice low and dangerous.
The waiter took a nervous step back, "I... It's your bill, sir."
