Her first thought was that she'd been robbed.

How else to explain the strange suspicion that came over her the moment she inserted her key into the door of her chic downtown apartment and found it already unlocked.

Call it feminine intuition, call it the precocious child in her who had read too many Nancy Drew mysteries far into adolescence. Either way, something was amiss.

Entering deeper into the spacious two-bedroom apartment only proved her right.

As she tiptoed through the foyer toward the normally sun-soaked living room, she was greeted with the second sign of trouble.

The mustard yellow armchair she'd carefully picked out to match the accent colors of the gray suede couch's throw pillows was gone, leaving a gaping hole by the French-style windows.

Half of the entertainment system looked mislaid as well.

Gingerly dropping her purse on the foyer's metallic gold console table, she blinked, hoping she wasn't hallucinating after a long day.

But when her eyes fluttered open again, the armchair was still missing.

She stood immobile for a second, scrunching her eyes in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. Dealing with a break-in was definitely not her choice agenda for the evening. All she wanted was to peel off the fitted black trousers and striped button-down blouse she'd been styled in and take a warm bubble bath. Preferably with a glass of white wine in hand. Taping had run late, today's guest being a little too friendly between takes, and she was exhausted.

"Glen," she called out, silently praying her live-in boyfriend had already come home and investigated.

Getting no answer, she moved briskly to scope out the rest of the apartment.

It only went downhill from there.

The kitchen's pristine maple cabinets were all open on their hinges and rifled through, various pans and appliances clearly missing. Including, at first glance, the Vertuo Titan espresso machine and her favorite wok.

In the study, the antique mahogany desk and the desktop computer that sat atop it had vanished. Dust was starting to collect on the wooden floor in its wake.

The dresser drawers and closet in the master bedroom looked ransacked. The piles of clothing she always kept carefully folded toppled over and dozens of garments simply gone. But none of them hers.

And then it dawned on her.

This was So-Dale, a boutique apartment complex with a 24-hour doorman. In an upscale neighborhood. Yes, downtown had closer proximity to the more seedy South Side of the city, but it would be really hard to extricate an entire 150-pound desk from the building without anyone from maintenance noticing.

This wasn't a robbery.

He'd left her.

The motherfucker had left her.

Who the hell did he think he was?!

In a rage, Betty stomped back into the living room, grabbing ferociously at her purse.

She ripped her phone out of its designated pocket, prepared to unleash on him. But the beep of a notification that appeared on the home screen stopped her in her tracks. She had a voicemail.

It had been there since earlier in the afternoon, but she had barely paid attention. She was too busy at work, finishing the never-ending taping. Plus, who even left voicemails anymore?

Her stomach sank now as it hit her.

Of course. Her pathetic coward of a boyfriend, that's who. A man who literally ran a social media startup had used the dinosaur to end all dinosaurs of technology to break up with her.

If she didn't feel as if she were about to vomit out her organs, she would have laughed at the irony.

Betty put the phone on speaker as she let the message play.

"Hi babe," he said over some sort of indiscernible static, his voice bleating like an AI robot programmed to sound the appropriate level of contrite. "I know me leaving like this probably came as a shock…I just really wanted to avoid you making a scene…I think we both know things haven't been good for a while between us…Try to see this time apart as a positive experience.…a chance for space and new perspectives….I promise you it's what's best for us…. I'll be in touch when you calm down, so don't worry about calling….Okay then, love you."

Anger bloomed in her chest as she listened.

What was best for her? The moron had left her in the wind, probably stealing half of her possessions in the process, and he wanted to lecture her about what was best for her? And then he had the gall to tell her that he loved her? What the actual fuck?

She let out a primal scream. Any thought or care for what the neighbors might think having vacated her mind the moment she heard his weaselly tone.

This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. This was not supposed to be her life.

She was Elizabeth freaking Cooper, golden girl of Riverdale and local celebrity.

The youngest daughter of one of the city's most well-respected and elite families and heir to its mini media empire. A girl whose whole life had been carefully curated since birth.

Since even before her birth.

The Cooper's wealth and prestige was borne from the Riverdale Register, the award-winning newspaper that had been in her family for generations. Then, in the early 90s, when she was only a baby, the family had started to acquire other local media outlets, including the RIVW television station. A savvy business decision considering the soon looming decline of print media. Not that the Register had suffered much, if at all, from that phenomenon. Thanks to her parents' careful stewardship, the successful paper had moved beyond its initial regional status to now boast circulation in seven nearby towns. The TV side of their corporation was thriving as well.

But what her parents, Alice and Harold, prided themselves on most of all were their three beautiful and successful children: Charles, Pauline, and Elizabeth.

They'd all been held to the highest standard since infancy. Only the best, was her mother's mantra. Starting with their education.

Private school was the natural choice for a family of the Cooper's standing. Both she and her two older siblings had attended the tony Stonewall Prep for all of K-12.

Betty was a star student at the prep school, popular with both her fellow classmates and teachers alike. In addition to finishing at the top of her class, she served as editor of both the school newspaper and the yearbook, as well as co-captain of the cheerleading squad.

An Ivy League education was the next box to check on the quest for excellence. So off to Yale University to double major in English Literature and Media & Communications she went.

A masters' degree in Communications from Columbia followed, along with two years of experience as a television news reporter in New York City.

Life in the big city was everything she'd imagined—exciting and challenging and fun. But it was hard to let go of her soft spot for Riverdale. Something about the cozy small town feel, despite it being a booming mid-sized city. She always knew she wanted to return if the chance presented itself.

So when her parents off-handedly mentioned that RIVW's producers were looking to develop new, out-of-the-box afternoon programming, she threw her hat in the ring and pitched herself.

"B In Form" was a cooking cum talk show. As star and host, she spent half of the program chit-chatting with various luminaries from Riverdale and its surrounding towns on anything from politics to arts & culture. The other half was devoted to putting guests' favorite baked goods recipes to the test.

The show had been running with her parents' blessing for two years.

Nepotism? Probably. But it wasn't as if she were unqualified to moderate discussions on current events or conduct engaging interviews. And people all over the state loved the show. Ratings were through the roof.

Which was why none of this made sense.

Girls like her, with brilliant careers and on the cusp of being engaged to one of the high-tech industry's rising stars, did not get the rug pulled out from under them.

She was successful damnit. She always had been. She'd never been fired or broken up with or failed at anything before.

All her previous splits had been mutual and simply a product of moving on to new stages of her life, from Trevor in high school to Adam in college. Glen was supposed to be different. Permanent. He'd also grown up in Riverdale, the child of a well-to-do political family. A few years older than Betty, she'd become reacquainted with him when she was 24 and he was 28, at the Stonewall alumni gala she happened to attend in honor of his and Charles's class's 10-year reunion. Glen checked all of her boxes for long-term settling. Handsome, educated, ambitious, wealthy. Sure, he could also be smarmy and self-centered, but those were relatively minor issues in Betty's eyes. What self-proclaimed tech bro wasn't? And who cared when he had everything else she thought she wanted?

They'd been together for close to four years, living together for nearly two. He'd even followed her back to Riverdale from New York. The only thing missing in her eyes was the diamond ring.

But apparently it was Glen that was missing something. A spine maybe, she thought bitterly. Or another anatomical part too crass to mention.

She cursed him, but it didn't keep the deep well of failure from consuming her. She felt as if she were drowning in it.

The sensation was strange and unpleasant and made her want to dig her fingernails into her skin, a bad habit from her teenage years that she'd kept hidden from her family and friends and had just barely managed to stop on her own.

How the hell would she explain this to her hypercritical world?

She was 28, for god's sake. Her parents expected a wedding soon. They were banking on it. The hints at holiday gatherings had become less and less subtle.

It certainly didn't help that her sister Polly had married her high school sweetheart right after college and had already produced two adorable five-year-old twins. Jason Blossom, Betty's brother-in-law, was handsome and rich, the heir to the largest maple syrup manufacturer in the country. Two facts Polly certainly liked to remark on whenever her baby sister was around. How motherhood was the greatest accomplishment for a woman and what a wonderful provider her husband was.

But Betty had always ignored her sister's resentful jabs about her being a "career woman," certain that in a few years, she'd have everything Polly had, and then some.

Now she'd never hear the end of it.

Betty tried to take a calming breath. Maybe she could fix this. Sure, the furious part of her wanted to give Glen a very loud piece of her mind. But the more rational side suggested that maybe if she just talked to him, listened to whatever ridiculous thing was bothering him about their relationship, he'd stop this charade and come home.

She dialed his number and prepared herself to not immediately start yelling upon hearing his voice.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. Until nothing. No beep. No answer. Just nothing.

That's when she lost it.

Curling into a fetal position on the couch, she practically sobbed into one of the throw pillows.

How could he do this to her?!

She was the perfect girlfriend, the definition of wife material. Attractive, driven (but not threateningly so), encouraging of his work. She could charm the pants off his colleagues and the snooty executives from venture capital funds his company went begging to for funding. Their apartment was not only neat but sparkling (with the help of a cleaning lady, but still). A delicious, home-made dinner put on the table almost every night. She kept her natural curves slender and in shape, dressed stylishly but not too provocatively. Gave him sex at least twice a week. She made a point of it. Sure, their intimacy was more often perfunctory than passionate, but he always went away satisfied (which was more than she could say for herself). So what the fuck else could he possibly want?

Tears pricked her eyes and she forced a hand up to swat them away. She did not want to cry for this loser. That was weak.

Especially when he clearly didn't deserve her. After everything she'd given him.

The anger and indignation flared hot for a second before shattering into pieces. Despite the burning humiliation, she still loved him. Still wanted him to come back. He was supposed to be it for her.

The tears were falling too fast now for her to wipe them away.

There was only one person she could turn to in this situation.

Betty groped pathetically for her phone, sighing in aggravation as saltwater drops smeared on the screen, prolonging her efforts to get a hold of the confident and sophisticated Veronica Lodge. No one messed with or was better in a crisis than her executive producer turned best friend. She'd know how to fix this. She had to.

Veronica answered after two short rings.

"Bee," she proclaimed. "I'm so glad you called! I have exciting news about next week's show."

"That's great, Vee, but…"

"Josie McCoy," Veronica cut her off excitedly. "Grammy-nominated R&B singer and Riverdale sweetheart. She's doing a homecoming tour and we think she'd make the perfect guest for 'B In Form.'"

"Oh," Betty squeaked, momentarily distracted by the shop talk, before attempting to revert back to the actual purpose of her call. "Actually, I…"

"Our research team discovered she was a rival cheerleader at Riverdale High when you were at Stonewall," Veronica continued cheerfully. "And who else but yours truly would have the brilliant idea to turn the episode into a battle of the brownies. Picture it, Bee. You and Josie reminiscing about high school and indulging in a little friendly bake-sale competition."

"Right," Betty mumbled, the words Veronica was saying not even registering at this point. She felt as if she were bursting at the seams and any minute she'd erupt.

"Battle of the bake-sale brownies, Bettykins," Veronica repeated with a squeal. "Can you imagine how many viewers will tune in to that? We may even break 200,000!"

"Veronica!" Betty finally shouted, shocking the other woman into shutting up for a second, before her own tone also started to flatten. "I need to tell you something," Betty muttered.

"Yes," Veronica chirped. "What's up?"

"Glen…" she paused, before choking out the rest of the words. "He left me."

There was resounding silence on the other end of the phone and Betty could feel her heart beating rapidly in apprehension of Veronica's dramatic response.

It came just as expected.

"What the ever-loving fuck?" Veronica finally hissed, her voice extending each syllable for maximum effect. "What do you mean left you?"

"He moved out I think…" Betty replied, barely able to get the words out. "He left a voicemail saying we needed space."

"That pathetic prick left you in a voicemail?!" Veronica screeched, and Betty's eyes promptly welled with tears.

"I don't know what to do, Vee," she wailed.

"I'm coming over," Veronica announced, transitioning to her ever-ready dominant boss girl mode. Her voice brooked no argument.

"Okay," Betty agreed, sniffling.

Tossing her phone onto the marble-topped coffee table, Betty allowed herself to crumple like a deflated ball into the couch.

She hoped to all hell Veronica knew her well enough to bring along a case of their favorite rosé, because she was relatively certain Glen had cleaned out their entire liquor collection as well. Schmuck.

That was how Veronica found her a half hour later upon entering the apartment with her spare set of keys—Betty wrapped in a crushed velvet afghan staring blankly out at her half-ruined living room, dry tears staining her cheeks.

"Bee," Veronica said gently, as she ventured deeper into the room.

"Hmph," Betty mumbled in response.

Veronica narrowed her eyes as she took in the missing armchair, before plastering an encouraging smile on her face.

"I brought a few things," she continued, trying to keep her voice upbeat. The brunette began to remove the items and place them on the coffee table. "Sylviane. Rosé of the gods. Entemmen's soft-baked chocolate chip cookies. Enough said. And chicken pad thai from Zozobra."

Betty's green-blue eyes flickered for a second at the sight of the chocolate and booze, before once again turning dead.

"I'm going to bring some glasses," Veronica suggested.

"Good luck finding anything," Betty mumbled, her voice dripping in sarcasm. "That rat bastard took half of my kitchen."

Veronica sucked in a cackle, returning a few minutes later with two long-stemmed wine glasses and a corkscrew. She settled next to Betty on the couch after pouring each of them a generous glass. Betty gulped down the pink liquid as if it were a life raft.

"Thirsty, Bee?" Veronica cracked, shooting her friend an amused smile.

"Very funny, Vee," Betty hissed, before banging her head against one of the throw pillows. "How could I have been such an idiot?" she moaned. "Four years, Vee! All for nothing. All that work and all those plans just flushed down the toilet."

"You're not an idiot…" Veronica chided.

"And you warned me," Betty said, her voice rising as she got more and more agitated. "You always complained that Glen was arrogant and selfish. And boring."

"Well, I did say that…" Veronica snickered.

"God, he was so boring, Vee," Betty groaned, steamrolling over her. "Always with the anecdotes about his precious frat bros or cribbing opinions from Wall Street Journal op-eds because he was apparently too lazy or stupid to articulate his own. But did any of that stop me from making every effort to make him happy? No! Because I am a caring, supportive girlfriend who would do anything to give him what he wanted. And this is how he repays me?!"

"Okay, Bee, take a deep breath," Veronica said, patting her shoulder lightly. "This sucks. I know this sucks. You obviously had…certain expectations from Glen…"

"Certain expectations?!" Betty roared. "He was supposed to have proposed by now! My parents told him. His parents told him!"

"Well," Veronica joked, her voice laced with mock sympathy, "I can see how that would put a lot of pressure on a weak man-child like Glen."

Betty glared at her. "Not helping, Vee," she harrumphed.

"I'm sorry, Bee," Veronica apologized, at least having the good sense to look remorseful. "You know I've never particularly been…" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "Glen's biggest fan… But I tolerate him because I'm ride or die for you."

Betty managed a watery smile at that.

"That said, and my general feelings about monogamy aside," Veronica continued with a shudder, "Perhaps, only perhaps, this time-out isn't the end of the world. It could be a chance for you to meet other men. To have some fun. Maybe not worry so much about being married and having 2.5 kids by the time you're 34."

"But I love him, Vee," Betty insisted, swallowing down the lump that immediately formed as she said the words.

It wasn't that they were a lie per se, but speaking them aloud somehow felt untrue, an exaggeration. She didn't want to think about why. How maybe her ultimate fear was being alone, more than actually losing Glen. But she quickly tamped down that intrusive thought.

"I don't want a time-out," she finished, doing her best to sound resolute, but not completely succeeding.

"Okay," Veronica said softly. "But I still think you should sue him for theft. This living room looks criminally underdesigned with that armchair missing."

"Veronica," Betty scoffed, " I don't want to sue him. I just want him to come back."

"Betty," Veronica assured her, not without casting a few judgmental eye rolls in the process. "If there is one thing I'm willing to bet future seasons of 'B In Form' on, it's that the fever will break on Glen's inane mid-life crisis and he'll come crawling home to you soon enough. Maybe in a few days, at most a few weeks. But he'll be back. Trust me. We all know he can't do better than you."

"His dad is a congressman," Betty objected, as if this somehow bestowed on him golden goose status.

"Yeah," Veronica snorted, "Who got duped on national television by Sacha Baron Cohen. How moronic can you be?"

"It wasn't that bad," Betty protested weakly.

Veronica made a face at her.

"Okay, what does that even matter?" Betty grumbled. "I wasn't practically engaged to Arnold Scot. No, my moron of choice was his son Glen. And now I have to go explain to my parents that the man I not so secretly assured them was destined to be my husband has somehow left me with no explanation whatsoever!"

Veronica pursed her lips, a shadow crossing over her dark brown eyes.

"What?" Betty questioned, feeling her sense of panic rising at that look.

"Well…"

"No…" Betty gulped, reading her friend's mind. "You think he met someone…you think he left me for someone else!"

"I didn't say that," Veronica sighed.

"But you thought it!"

"We can't deny that it is a possibility, Bee," she murmured, trying to keep her voice as gentle as possible. "I wouldn't put it past Scooto thinking only with his pecker before his brain finally activated."

"Oh my god," Betty moaned, her face falling into her hands.

"Maybe I'm wrong," Veronica proposed, clearly afraid Betty was about to go off the deep end. "Have you two been having other problems recently you didn't tell me about?"

"Not that I know of," Betty huffed from behind her fingers, before lifting her head to down the rest of the wine in her glass in one fell swoop.

If she were to be honest, Glen had been aloof and much shorter with her than normal these last few weeks. But she'd just attributed it to acquisition talks his company was having with a major tech company. It hadn't even crossed her mind that he might be dissatisfied with their relationship. With her.

The realization numbed her.

Another woman made sense, sadly. It pained her to admit it, to concede her dereliction in keeping her boyfriend interested. The last thing she needed was more fuel for her already burning insecurities and fear of failure. At least, she could take cold comfort in the fact that Glen was a complete hypocrite. Willing to blow up their relationship just so he could enjoy a few fucks with someone else and thereby keep the moral high ground. Instead of simply cheating and covering it up like the rest of his friends probably did.

Sensing her best friend's spiraling thoughts, Veronica quickly poured a healthy amount of wine into Betty's empty glass.

"I'm going to take this moment, Bee, to remind you that you're a total smokeshow," Veronica declared, in an apparent effort to rally the blonde. "And countless men would line up to sleep with you in a heartbeat."

Betty groaned, fumbling for the box of cookies. She aggressively ripped it open and grabbed a handful.

Veronica was a notorious flirt, with practically a different guy between her sheets every week. And she preferred it that way. In her opinion, which she offered unsolicited to their close group of friends at every possible opportunity, your twenties and thirties were designed for having fun. There was no reason whatsoever to settle for one lover, especially when there were so many delicious treats around to sample from. Betty, of course, lived her life exactly the opposite. She'd only ever had serious boyfriends, never casual hook-ups. She'd barely dated even, only accepting dinner invitations from men who met her long list of criteria. Winnowing down from there to boyfriend status was over by the dessert course. Maybe that was her problem, she tipsily decided. Way too picky. But god, at least she had standards. Veronica would probably seduce an armed bank robber if his dick were pretty enough.

"That might be helpful if I were actually interested in having sex with anyone else," she muttered.

"Oh?" Veronica teased, cocking a perfectly manicured eyebrow up. "Did I miss the memo on Glen Scot being an incredible lover? So incredible in fact that now that you have the freedom to sleep with whomever you want, you're just going to say, 'nah, pass.'"

"Yes, please, pass," Betty begged, willing the brunette to drop the topic.

But Veronica was undeterred. "When's the last time you came?" she demanded to know.

"Last week," Betty answered defiantly, before stuffing three of the cookies into her mouth.

"Not with Matt," Veronica replied with a knowing wink, referring to the small but handy vibrator she'd gifted to Betty named after a young Matt Damon.

"Shut up," Betty grunted, her mouth a mess of half-chewed chocolate and dough.

She would not give Veronica the satisfaction of knowing how embarrassingly long it had been since Glen had even actively attempted to make her climax.

Veronica frowned in distaste at the gesture, but shrugged off her displeasure at Betty's sudden gracelessness to focus back on her uninvited TED talk.

"My point is, Bettykins, you now have the opportunity to go find a gorgeous man who can properly get you off. That is worth celebrating."

"Cheers," Betty cynically cracked, tilting her wine glass with an exaggerated swoop toward Veronica before downing another large gulp.

Pointedly ignoring Betty's sarcasm, Veronica brought her own glass up to her lips.

"What am I always telling you, Bee?" she trilled insistently after taking a delicate sip. "The best revenge on an ungrateful man is to get your petals plucked by someone else."

Betty blanched at the atrocious metaphor, but Veronica only smirked at her discomfort.

"More to the point," she added, "Glen definitely does not deserve your chastity while you wait for him to screw his head back on."

"Enough, Vee," Betty silenced her. "The ink isn't even dry on our…" she swallowed down the rest of the sentence. She couldn't even say it. The word was too ugly. Too finite. Gag-worthy, even.

But her brain wasn't as forgiving.

Breakup, it screamed.

In seconds, she was blubbering again.

"Okay," Veronica proclaimed, changing tacks, as she soothingly rubbed Betty's back. "Here's what we're going to do. Finish the wine, eat our noodles, and check out that serial killer documentary you keep complaining Glen refuses to watch with you. Doesn't that sound good, Bee?"

So much for Veronica having the answers.

Inebriation and stuffing her face on comfort food had been her go-to plan from minute one of solving "The Case of the Missing Furniture." But she'd expected a woman as alluring and self-possessed as Veronica to have a better idea of how to seduce a boyfriend back, or at least how to carelessly bat away the feeling you were about to die from the humiliation of being dumped. Unfortunately, maybe wallowing really was the only cure for the time being.

Betty hiccuped her agreement, wiping her red-rimmed eyes (and probably wet snot, she lamented) on the afghan.

"There there," Veronica soothed, offering her the still warm take-out container and a pair of chopsticks.

The blonde poked at a peanut-coated piece of chicken as Veronica grabbed the remote and fiddled with the buttons. On the plus side, Betty thought as she chewed the morsel down, at least Glen being out of the house would give her some time to finally get through her overflowing Netflix queue.

She swallowed with a grimace.

Who was she kidding? This was an unmitigated disaster. Send in the cats.