Synopsis: Deep in the heart of lush New York City, a stranger strides into a ballroom. Her heels pierce the curiosity of all those around her. Her masquerade mask frames her fierce, unwavering eyes.
Archie Andrews, the CEO of the company sponsoring the ball, is intrigued by her. Whispers surround him as he watches her, their words questioning who she is. Is she a potential investor? Is she a spy from another company? Is she an heiress?
Captured by her mystery, he disappears downtown to hire the services of New York City's most renowned Private Investigator, Sweet Pea, to uncover her identity.
As Sweet Pea investigates this mysterious woman, he will start to peel back the curtain to reveal who she really is - and become enraptured with her himself.
Genre: Mystery/Romance/Fairy-tale Retelling
Timeline: Alternate Universe
Pairing: Sweet Pea x Veronica Lodge
Rating: T
A/N: Welcome to the origin of my RiverTales series, a group of Riverdale based fairy-tale retellings.
This first one is a SweetVee retelling of The Princess and The Pea.
I very much hope you enjoy its outrageous glamour and snarky sarcasm (courtesy of Sweet Pea) as much as I have done writing it!
Chapter One
Once Upon A Time
All stories have a beginning. This one begins in a ballroom.
The entire building whispers as she enters. Stiletto heels clacking against the cold floor; the sharp echoes of a heartbeat. The hem of her sleek, silken dress drips around her ankles like running water. The colour of ivory marbles. Dark eyes gleam out from behind inky blue feathers; the tips of them whisper against her golden skin as she wears them as a masquerade mask.
The crowd watches her, murmuring and gossiping, dispelling their dancing for a moment. Did she pluck them from a wild raven? Were they retrieved from her very own pheasants? Were they sown on from the feathers of a far eastern peacock?
Her ears seem to clock every word they utter. Glossy, ebony hair glides across her bare shoulders as she moves her head. She casts her gaze across the room as if she owns every inch of marble they stand on.
This stranger. This mysterious woman in a white dress.
And amidst the crowd stands a man. Shoulders sharp with his suit. Breath lingering with captivation. His eyes are transfixed on her, his red hair dulling in the shine of her beauty. People whisper around him, his guests to this charity ball, but all he hears is the swish of her hair, the click of her heels and her eyes landing directly on him.
He inhales.
"Pardon me," he utters quickly, weaving past his guests as their eyes turn to him instead. But he keeps his eyes on her. The way she sashays down the steps. The way her eyes light up the room. He may as well hold up his hand, calling someone to dull the rest of the lights in the room.
Who is she? He's sure he didn't invite her. He would have remembered if he had.
His mind would have obsessed over her the whole evening, waiting for her starlit appearance, instead of worrying about networking and making deal arrangements and assuring that the hors d'oeuvres were gluten free.
Polished black Oxford shoes tap resolutely across the ballroom as he strides towards her. She glances at him briefly, a mild curiosity. He decisively captures her gaze as he slides into her path.
"Ah. Lovely that you could make it," he smiles, letting his voice drip smoothly from his tongue. He looks directly into her all-consuming eyes. He tells himself not to lose his breath. "I'm sorry, have we met?" He tries not to sound too bewildered, instead letting it melt into a compliment. "I'm sure I would remember a face as lovely as yours."
The woman slides her gaze to him, letting out a little, mocking chuckle from her glossy lips. And, tilting her head in amusement, her hair dripping down her shoulder like an onyx waterfall, she brushes past him effortlessly and strides further into the ballroom.
The man stares after him, his mouth hanging loose. Conscious of eyes wandering over him, he paces after her, letting out an awkward laugh. "I'm sorry," he says warmly as he reaches her just as she scoops a glass of champagne from a passing tray and takes a sip. "I don't think you heard me." She sweeps her eyes over him and he feels suddenly insignificant.
So he does what he always does. He bolsters himself. "I'm Archie Andrews," he chuckles gently, pressing his palm against his chest. His heart thrums underneath his shirt. "CEO of Andrews Construction and architect of this very building," he indicates the room with his hand; the very tip of a high-rise skyscraper, the home of his business, windows encompassing every inch of wall and boasting the best views of New York City around, "And the man who is asking you to dance." Archie says with a broad smile, extending his hand out to her.
She looks back at him, licks her lips once, and then says very simply; "No, I heard you."
And then she traipses away, her lips sipping at the edge of her champagne glass and she glides effortlessly into conversation with a group of particularly powerful onlookers.
Humiliation rises Archie's hand to scratch at the back of his head. He's acutely aware of the crowds watching him. He feels ridiculed. He dwells in his embarrassment for a second longer before he forces himself out of it and strides decisively away from her.
"I hope you're enjoying tonight," he smiles pleasantly to a group of his guests who he hopes haven't been gossiping about him.
Clouds shift and gather like mist across the window framed horizon. They built up in Archie's heart.
The skyline of New York City is the backdrop to his shame.
"And that's what happened," Mr. Archie Andrews paces across Sweet Pea's office floor, raking his unreliable fingers through his tomato shaded hair and tapping his foot incessantly.
Eying Mr. Andrews from behind his desk, Sweet Pea sinks into his chair, the leather creaking as he swings his legs up onto his desk where he'd made a space for this specific purpose. Before, his favourite pen pot used to reside on that exact spot on his desk. That was until he kept accidentally knocking it over in bored laziness and realised a footrest was far more productive than a pen pot.
Archie Andrews has reached one side of the room and is now pacing towards the other.
Sweet Pea has already made two deductions about this man. One; his suit is far too pristine for him to be from this side of the city. And two; he's completely delusional.
"I'd prefer it if you didn't traipse all over my carpet, Mr. Andrews," Sweet Pea sighs, irritated, cracking open the newspaper the man had provided him with and scanning listlessly over the article in question. Mysterious Woman Appears at Charity Ball. It's not even a major article. It's in fine print, crushed into the bottom left hand corner of page sixteen. "It cost a fair dime."
Archie flicks his gaze towards the Private Investigator, a brief flash of regret crossing his features before he says, "I'll replace it."
Ah. He's one of those kinds. Money can fix anything in his world.
Except, apparently, mystery women.
With a taxing sigh, Sweet Pea drops his legs down from his desk and flops the newspaper onto it with disinterest. It lies open at the apparently damning article. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this, Mr. Andrews," Sweet Pea tries to sound regretful, but it morphs into more a scoff. "I have no name. No photograph. I have nothing to go on." He leans back into his chair, eyeing Archie resolutely and folding his arms over his chest in closure.
Archie finally stops pacing the carpet, which provides Sweet Pea with a sweet relief – fidgety nervousness is one of his irritations. And, unsurprisingly, he encounters it quite often in his line of work. But this Archie Andrews apparently isn't going to sulk away like Sweet Pea is tiredly wishing. Instead, Archie turns on him and says, with a bold confidence that irritates him even more; "Aren't you supposed to be the best PI in town?"
Sweet Pea can hear the undertones of that accusation; I have a lot of powerful friends who could put you out of business.
Sweet Pea grumbles, feeling himself giving in despite his better judgement. "Fine," he concedes, eyeing the man with a hard stare. He creaks forward, twisting his fingers together on top of his desk. He's always found he looks more imitating that way. It must work because he just saw Archie flinch. "But it's going to cost you twice as much as it would my usual customers."
Archie doesn't bat an eyelid. Sweet Pea is convinced they must not function anymore. Archie sticks his hand out for a handshake; "Deal."
Sweet Pea wills himself not to roll his eyes. He shouldn't be surprised. If this man is completely satisfied with paying for replacement carpets, he'll surely pay for anything. Sweet Pea should keep that in mind. He's been trying to get triple glazed windows for years.
"You'll have to sign a contract," Sweet Pea leans down to pull open a drawer of his desk and drag out a pad of post-it notes; just as Archie notices that Sweet Pea is clearly not going to shake his hand and cough shortly, curling his fingers back towards himself.
"And," Sweet Pea's voice clacks in his mouth like chewing gum. He bites the side of his cheek aimlessly as he rests his forearms against the edge of his desk, organising the papers sharply in his hands, "You'll have to pay half the amount up front."
Archie shuffles on his feet. Sweet Pea worries he's going to pace again.
"Do I receive compensation," Archie asks cautiously, jutting his chin out to appear more confident. Sweet Pea snorts, "if you're unable to find her?"
Sweet Pea quirks a single eyebrow. He scoffs as he smirks. "I'll find her," he says determinately, dark eyes studying the man across from him. Archie twitches before nodding slowly, agreeing to the arrangement.
"I'll have my assistant draft a contract for you," Sweet Pea says as he stretches lazily to his feet and shoves the wad of post-it notes and a pen from his second favourite pen pot over to Archie Andrews. "We'll need your contact details."
Archie picks up the pen and clicks off the lid, hovering it over the post-it notes for a moment before scrawling in sharp, jagged handwriting. Sweet Pea studies his hand movements. Is it messy because he's nervous or because he just can't cope with his life?
Or maybe he just has crappy handwriting.
"And," Sweet Pea inhales says, "A copy of your guest list."
Archie's head pops up shortly, his eyes insistent and strong; "I didn't invite her."
Sweet Pea rolls his eyes. "No, clearly," he drags his breath out. "But some of your guests might have actually thought to snap a picture or two with their iPhones while they were there." He lets out a short, breathy, mocking laugh.
The base of Archie's neck reddens. He rips the post-it note from its tower of brothers, balancing the sticky part on the tip of his finger as he passes it over to Sweet Pea. Sweet Pea sighs regrettably. Archie is clearly one of those assumption-making people. Maybe Sweet Pea wanted to keep the post-it note on it's stack. Now he'd have to find a suitable patch of wall to stick it to.
Plucking the post-it note from Archie's neatly groomed fingers, Sweet Pea thanks him passively and then not so subtly indicates that he should promptly leave by leading him to the door. As soon as he hears his door – graced with its very own brass name plaque - click close, Sweet Pea strides across the room, very likely adding to the new distressed look his carpet has now got going on, and cranks open his still double-glazed window. And, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes, drags one out and lights it into the air of downtown New York City.
He presses the cigarette to his lips and inhales the tobacco sharply before blowing out of the window.
He really needs to quit. The tar has already wallpapered his lungs and is probably currently refurnishing at this very moment.
Breathing in through his nose, Sweet Pea hangs his cigarette holding hand out of the window and groans. He also needs to find a mysterious woman that literally nobody on the planet seems to have any knowledge of.
He sighs, fighting to keep his eyes open. He better get started.