As duck confit plates were scraped clean and champagne flutes refilled for the third—or maybe tenth—time, the energy at L'Esprit de Gigi simmered with the same finesse as a flambé about to go wrong.

Archie tried to focus on the dessert menu (crème brûlée or tarte au citron?) but the wedding rehearsal dinner had turned into the Met Gala of meltdowns.

Winter Blanco still stood at the center of the room like a controversial art piece—fabulous, untouchable, and throwing shade like it was confetti. Her heel tapped against the marble floor, matching the tempo of tension rising around her.

"Archie is the Kailie Lima of this wedding," Winter repeated proudly to the table of groomsmen.

Georgia Randolph, who had been quietly sipping her third glass of champagne with an elegant eye-roll since the drama began, finally stood up. Slowly. Powerfully.

"That's enough."

Winter narrowed her eyes. "Oh? Savannah Barbie wants to chime in?"

Georgia smiled tightly. "Sweetheart, I've met criminals, murderers, and emotionally constipated exes. You don't scare me."

"Oh please," Winter laughed, taking a sip from her glass. "Your whole family's a Netflix mess. Especially that daughter of yours—Ginny. What is that, a name or a cry for help?"

Gasps rippled.

Georgia's expression dropped from composed to feral.

"You can come at me, but leave my daughter the hell out of your messy, bootleg-reality-reunion energy. Let me tell you something about my family. Paul Randolph is a mayor who cares more than anyone I've met. Zion Miller is an artist with a soul, something you wouldn't recognize if it wore Louboutin heels. My son Austin? That boy's been through more than most grown men. And Ginny? Ginny has more intelligence, wit, and heart than every season of Bad Girls Club combined."

Winter's smirk faltered just a hair.

"And you," Georgia continued, pointing, "are just like Gil Timmins. All bark, all bite, and all the reason to get a restraining order."

"You're calling me Gil?" Winter barked, stepping forward. "You're the one out here serving Southern sass like it's a casserole of delusion."

"Bitch, please," Georgia snapped.

And just like that—Veronica's rehearsal dinner officially hit Defcon 1.

"Okay! That's enough!" Christian Hughes stood up, placing himself between them. "No one is going full Bravo in Paris tonight. Chill."

Winter scoffed and pivoted to Christian. "Aren't you the Midsommar guy with the clingy girlfriend? What's her name again? Dani? Emotional support sundress?"

Christian's jaw tensed. "You don't get to talk about her. Dani survived more than you'd last in a flower crown."

"Okay—timeout!" Jessica Davis interjected, jumping in before anyone could throw a wine glass. "We're here to eat, drink, and survive this chaos without trending on TikTok tomorrow."

Toni Topaz weaved through the crowd like a glamorous referee, her hair shining under the restaurant lights. "What the hell is going on over here?"

She didn't wait for the answer. Instead, she looped an arm around Winter's shoulders. "You—outside. We're gonna have a talk. A calm talk. Preferably without screaming or comparisons to reality TV."

Winter groaned but followed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "This party's got the vibes of a canceled pilot anyway."

As Toni led Winter out, the atmosphere in the restaurant exhaled slightly—like everyone had been holding their breath.

Meanwhile, Veronica Lodge, now six champagnes deep, stumbled outside—flanked by Emily Cooper, Betty Cooper, Olivia Baker, and Tabitha Tate. Her bridesmaids tried to keep her from toppling in stilettos she had no business still wearing.

"I'm fine," Veronica slurred. "Perfect. Just perfect. Totally NOT unraveling like a cheap tulle hemline."

"Veronica, let's sit down for a minute," Emily offered, soft and patient.

Veronica whipped her head around. "Don't pity me, Em. I don't need comfort. I need control. Control over this damn wedding. Archie ruined everything. Kim Petras. Winter Blanco. Blood packets?! This was supposed to be a wedding, not a season finale of Dexter!"

"You're drunk," Tabitha whispered.

"NO I'M—" Veronica turned toward a French couple walking by on the sidewalk. They glanced curiously at the group.

"What are you looking at, Pierre and Marie Curie?! Keep walking!"

"V—" Betty tried.

"Oh! You wanna look too? Bienvenue to my meltdown! Hope you brought berets!"

A group of teens passing by paused to record.

"Get! FUCKING! LOST!" Veronica screamed at them, arms flailing.

"Okay, okay," Olivia said quickly, waving the teens away. "No social media clout for you. Move along."

Emily tried to calm her again, reaching for Veronica's arm.

"SHUT UP!" Veronica shrieked, then immediately clutched her own head, mascara-streaked tears dripping. "Ugh, I'm a mess. I hate this. I hate me right now."

The bridesmaids surrounded her, holding her steady, ignoring the curious glances from diners inside.

Back inside L'Esprit de Gigi, Archie ran a hand over his face, looking toward the windows.

"She okay?" he muttered to Jughead.

Jughead tilted his head. "Define 'okay.'"

Reggie sighed. "Well, at least Kim Petras hasn't shown up early."

A loud crash echoed from the kitchen.

Everyone stared.

Cheryl Blossom muttered, "Famous last words."

And just like that, another wave of drama loomed. But this time, even the duck confit couldn't save them.

Paris. Perfection. And one hell of a rehearsal dinner.