It had finally happened. Veronica Lodge and Archie Andrews had finished the impossible: they were officially done with the wedding seating arrangements. A miracle. Tables numbered, drama managed, Bryce Walker moved far away from Jessica Davis, and Cheryl Blossom dramatically approved her table placement (twice). It was an act of organizational warfare, and they'd won.

Veronica flopped onto the velvet couch in their apartment like a war general post-battle. "Done. Tables. Seating. Every single person and personality. Managed." She blinked dramatically. "I am one seating chart away from sainthood."

Archie placed two glasses of sparkling lemonade on the coffee table. "You are a queen of logistics."

She sipped it like champagne. "Now… the next battlefield: the music."

Archie grinned. "Okay, okay, so hear me out. What if—and just think about this—we get someone huge to DJ our wedding?"

Veronica raised a perfectly arched brow. "Huge?"

"Like… Taylor Swift, or Sabrina Carpenter, or Demi Lovato," Archie said, getting more excited, "or Sam Smith. Or maybe Kim Petras. I mean, boom, instant iconic wedding, right?"

Veronica stared at him like he'd asked if he could wear Crocs to the wedding. "DJ?"

"Yeah!" Archie said, energized. "It's Paris, babe. Not Riverdale. People expect something bold. We can't have… like… Riverdale snooze."

Veronica gasped audibly. "Excuse me? Did you just call it a Riverdale snooze?"

Archie immediately regretted the phrase. "I mean, just in the sense that people will expect something… you know… big city glam. Not, like… Josie and the Pussycats doing acoustic covers."

That did it.

Veronica stood, offended down to her heels. "So you're saying Josie and the Pussycats—the girls I grew up with, who helped me survive Riverdale High and more emotional trauma than one teenage drama should legally allow—aren't enough for our wedding?"

"No, no, I'm not saying that!" Archie held his hands up. "I just meant… entertainment-wise, we should maybe mix it up. Like—okay! What about adding someone like Gracie Abrams? She's super trendy right now."

Veronica turned around slowly, glaring. "Excuse me? Did you just say Gracie Abrams?"

"She's… uh, really talented," Archie offered, now unsure of anything, including his own name.

"I am not hiring Gracie Abrams to sing at my wedding," Veronica snapped. "She's great, but not for our wedding. Not when I already have Josie and the Pussycats on board. What, are we doing an indie sob session now? Are we handing out tissues instead of champagne?"

"That's not what I meant!" Archie rubbed his temples. "Can you calm down for a second?"

"Oh, don't you dare," Veronica said through gritted teeth. "Don't say calm down. This is my wedding."

Archie blinked. "Our wedding. You mean our wedding."

But Veronica wasn't having it.

"You think it's all just about Riverdale snooze and how I'm too boring to have pop stars at our wedding, when I've been the one managing every RSVP, every table, every cross-checking allergy spreadsheet!"

Archie's voice raised slightly. "It's not just about you! You're acting narcissistic about this whole thing!"

There it was.

A sentence so sharp it could split diamonds.

Veronica froze, eyes wide. "Wow," she whispered, blinking. "Wow."

And then—like any composed, calm, elegant bride—she stormed off. Heels clacking against the hardwood floor like a funeral drum. Bedroom door slammed shut.

Archie stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by Post-It notes that said things like "VEGAN gluten-free" and "Tabitha = NO peanuts," wondering how what started as a conversation about music had become a war zone.

Behind the door, Veronica cried into her pillow, makeup smudging like some kind of dramatic CW monologue.

Archie sat on the couch, hands in his hair. He hadn't meant to say that. Not like that. Veronica wasn't being narcissistic—she was just stressed. The wedding was a pressure cooker and he had poked the lid.

He looked over at the half-finished playlist on her laptop and the sticky notes tacked to the walls. She had been managing most of it. And he had just—basically—told her that her taste in music was the problem.

Which, in retrospect, was… incredibly dumb.

He got up, walked toward the bedroom, and knocked softly.

"Ronnie?" he said, voice low. "Look… I'm sorry."

Silence.

"I didn't mean to call you that. You're not narcissistic. You're passionate. You care."

Still nothing.

He tried again. "And I do like Josie and the Pussycats. I just thought maybe… we could find a way to blend your vibe with mine."

After a beat, the door creaked open. Veronica stood there, eyes puffy, holding a wedding planning binder like it was a legal case.

"I want the wedding to feel like us, Archie," she said, voice soft but tired. "Not a concert. Not a PR stunt. Just… us."

Archie reached for her hand. "Then let's make it us. Let's keep Josie and the Pussycats. And maybe throw in one set of Kim Petras if she's available and doesn't charge like… Beyoncé-level pricing?"

Veronica let out a small, surprised laugh.

"I'm sorry, too," she whispered. "Planning this has made me kind of… terrifying."

He smiled. "You're a beautiful, terrifying wedding wizard."

They hugged.

And right then, as Veronica exhaled into his shoulder, she realized something.

She wasn't just planning a wedding.

She was planning a future.

And maybe, just maybe, they didn't need a pop star or a tear-stained indie ballad to make it special.

They just needed each other.

…But she was still texting Josie and the Pussycats to confirm.

Because a little glam never hurt anyone.