Riverdale

Betty’s eyes widened. “What did you do, Veronica?”

Jughead finally looked up, his pale blue eyes sharp. “Maybe that’s all you are to her now. A memory of a simpler time before her father’s empire crumbled, before she had to rebuild it with her mother’s cold, manicured hands.”

The door opened. Veronica Lodge stepped out, heels splashing in puddles, her black dress immaculate, her diamond choker catching the light. She didn’t run. She walked, slow and deliberate, like a queen returning to a kingdom she never truly left. Riverdale

Archie put his hand over Veronica’s. Jughead closed his notebook. Betty refolded the letter.

The rain over Riverdale was never just rain. It was a mood, a threat, a confession. That Tuesday afternoon, it hammered the tin roof of Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe like a thousand tiny fists, blurring the neon sign into a red-and-blue bruise against the bruised sky. Betty’s eyes widened

“Midnight,” Archie said. “The old barn. We finish this.”

Veronica raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking we start it.” A memory of a simpler time before her

“Found it taped to my laptop this morning,” Betty said, her voice steady, though her hands trembled. “The same stationery my mom used for her ‘neighborhood watch’ letters back in the day. The same handwriting as the letters the Black Hood sent.”

Archie exhaled, running a hand through his wet, copper-red hair. “Veronica called. She’s coming back from New York tonight. The Hiram Lodge memorial gala is Friday. She wants me to be her date.”

Jughead stiffened. Percival Pickens. The name alone tasted like ash. The newcomer who’d bought up half the town’s debts, who’d turned the Babylonium into a private club, who’d smiled at town council meetings while sliding a knife between Riverdale’s ribs.

“I know,” Betty said. “That’s why I’m scared.”