Mercy takes the card without comment and runs it through the machine. The equipment beeps once, processing the transaction.
Then it beeps again.
And again.
The sound fills the sudden silence of the bakery like an alarm.
Penelope's expression shifts from anger to panic, and something in my omega brain recognizes that panic immediately. It's the same panic I felt when my credit card gotdeclined at the grocery store because Ben had cleared out our joint account without telling me. The same panic that comes from realizing your financial situation is not what you thought it was, and everyone is watching you realize it.
"Card declined," Mercy says, sliding it back across the counter.
The two words hang in the air like an accusation.
"Try it again," Penelope says, her voice tight. The imperious tone is completely gone now, replaced by something that sounds almost desperate.
Mercy runs the card again. Same beeps. Same result.
"Tried it three times," Mercy says, her voice softer now but still firm. "It's declined."
I watch Penelope's face crumble slightly, watch the mask of confidence slip just enough to reveal the panic underneath. She's reaching for her phone with shaking hands, probably about to call Ben, probably about to have a very uncomfortable conversation about why her credit card isn't working at a bakery in Colorado.
"I don't have another card on me," Penelope finally admits, and her voice has lost all of its aggressive edge. She sounds almost small. Almost human. "I'll come back and pay later."
"You're going to pay now," Mercy says, and the firmness is back. The softness was temporary, a moment of sympathy that's already passed. "Or I'm calling the sheriff. Your choice."
The threat is real. I can see the phone sitting right beside the register, and I know Mercy well enough to know she's not bluffing. She's already reaching for it, her fingers hovering over the buttons.
I make a decision that probably isn't smart, but that's become my new normal.
"I'll pay for it," I say, stepping forward before I can second-guess myself.
Everyone turns to look at me. Jessica's eyes go wide with surprise. Mercy's eyebrows rise. Penelope's expression shifts to something complicated, something that looks like relief mixed with humiliation mixed with anger at needing help.
I pull out my credit card and hand it to Mercy.
"What's the total?"
Mercy looks at me like I've just volunteered to jump off a bridge, but she rings up the total on her register. The buttons beep with each entry.
“Let’s call it an even thirty dollars," she says, meeting my eyes like she's giving me one last chance to back out. "Coffee, pastry, and the damage to my ability to remain patient with rude customers."
"No," Penelope protests weakly, but there's no real fight left in her voice.
"It is now," Mercy says, still looking at me expectantly.
I hand over my credit card, and Mercy processes the transaction. The machine beeps once, twice, and then prints out a receipt. The card goes through without any issues, which is deeply satisfying in ways I can't quite articulate.
"Done," I say to Penelope, taking my card back and tucking it into my wallet. "You can go."
For a moment, Penelope just stares at me. Her expression is complicated, cycling through what looks like gratitude and resentment and something that might be embarrassment. Then her face hardens, and the mask slips back into place.
"You shouldn't have done that," she hisses, her voice dropping to something that sounds almost threatening. She leans closer, and I can smell the desperation on her, sharp and acrid beneath her expensive perfume. "You already ruined my wedding. Now you're trying to make me look like I can't even pay for a coffee? You should have stayed away from Ben and his family. You should have let us be."
The accusation hits harder than it should. My chest tightens, and I feel my scent spike with defensive anxiety before I can control it.
"Your wedding isn't ruined," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady even though her words are cutting deeper than I want to admit. "Nobody's not showing up because of me. But they don’t want to attend your wedding."
The words come out before I can stop them, and the moment they're out, I know I've made a mistake.
