Cheryl was supposed to be Riverdale’s ice queen—untouchable, unshaken, all fire and frost in designer heels.

But not after everything.

Not after her brother was shot*—and murdered—*by their own father, who then turned the gun on himself like it was some twisted full-circle finale.

If anyone had earned the right to cry over a strawberry milkshake at Pop’s, it was Cheryl Blossom.

She wasn’t sobbing—not exactly. But there she was, perched at the counter, her manicured fingers absentmindedly stirring the melting pink swirl of her milkshake. Tears clung to her amber eyes like they were too proud to fall, shimmering but still stubborn. She didn’t blink them away. She didn’t move at all, really—just sat there, frozen in that fragile space between implosion and eruption.

One wrong word, and she’d either fall apart… or burn the whole place down.