He chuckles. “Look at you. Marry a rock star and you grow some brains. When did that happen, huh?”

“The minute I fucking left you,” I snap.

His eyes glint with something dangerous. “I’m not going away, Hendrix. I put a majority of my savings into this place and I deserve repayment.”

“You took all of my money, Paul. That was my money too in that bank account you drained. Was that not enough for your selfish ass?” I laugh in disbelief.

“You wouldn’t have this bakery, these machines, a roof over your head, or any of that money in our account if it wasn’t because of me to begin with.”

“Save the gaslighting for someone else. Clearly I found a way to make it work.”

His chuckle is pure condescension. “Without strong credit, without any banks willing to loan you the funds . . . I call bullshit.”

I roll my shoulders and try to process this. Yes, Paul’s capital made this happen. Yes, he walked away and didn’t ask for the business instead of just money as he probably has every right to. My own personal bank account—my now rainy day savings stowed away in there from my agreement with Jase—is sitting much more comfortable than it ever has been. Wouldn’t it just be better to pay Paul back and know I own Cookie Cutter free and clear? To not worry that if say, my business explodes and I get to offer to sell franchise rights as I’ve always hoped to be able to, he can’t come back and take a cut?

I clench my jaw. “Fine. Fair is fair. I’ll pay you back the money you put in. Eighty grand.” I blow out a breath as tears well in my eyes. Then I lie. “I don’t know how I’ll come up with the money. You know how strapped I am for cash here, but I’ll find a way to give it to you, make payments. I don’t know.” My stomach twists at the thought.

“Yeah.” He scoffs. “You clearly didn’t read the agreement, did you?”

“What does that mean?”

“A smart businessman always hedges his bets.”

“Speak fucking plain English, Paul.”

He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket, lays it flat on the counter. “Read what you agreed to.”

My eyes scan the words, my stomach turning violently.

“Five hundred thousand dollars?” My voice rises in disbelief as my whole body violently rejects what I’m reading. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“No,” he says simply, “but there was an off chance this became a thing. It had a good premise, good bones . . . and yes, you and your talent. Someone who would work her fingers to the bone—”

“You motherfucker—”

“So I wanted to make sure I was compensated.”