Chapter Twenty-Three — Anna, Flirting, and Ice Cream Sulking
The weekend had started off peacefully, for once. Two months until Season Two, the concert behind me, and the rare feeling of relative freedom… until Axel called.
"Pretty girl," he said, voice low and teasing over the phone. "I've got an event tonight. Fashion gala, some awards thing. You want to come?"
I hummed noncommittally. "Can't. Too tired. Ice cream and pajamas sound way better."
He chuckled, deep and knowing. "Suit yourself. But try not to eat the entire tub, okay?"
I rolled my eyes. "I'm a grown woman. I can handle ice cream."
But of course, Axel being Axel meant I didn't really get off easy. By the time I turned on social media around 10 p.m., my entire feed was flooded.
#AxelAndAnna
#JealousMuchPrettyGirl
#WhoIsAnnaAgain
I froze. My fingers trembling, I scrolled through the clips: Axel in a black tuxedo, smiling, answering questions at a media interview… and there she was.
Anna. Axel's ex. Golden hair, sharp cheekbones, emerald eyes that sparkled when she laughed — the type of woman who made a room pause. And she was clearly flirting. Leaning close, laughing too much at his jokes, brushing his arm.
And I sat on my couch, tub of ice cream in my lap, sulking hard.
"Seriously?" I muttered, shoveling a spoonful into my mouth. "Ice cream. You're the only comfort left."
Ember barged in — of course she did — waving her phone like a flag. "SIS. The media is eating this up. Anna flirting, Axel grinning like a moron… they're calling you the jealous pretty girl! Also, omg, your ice cream face is trending!"
I groaned. "I hate the internet. And you. Both of you."
"Exactly!" Ember cheered.
Meanwhile, in another room, Axel had texted me.
Pretty girl… don't sulk too hard. I'll explain when I'm home.
I stared at my phone, tub of ice cream trembling slightly in my lap. The internet was wild. Fans were shipping me and Axel. Anna was probably enjoying the chaos. And me? I was furious, jealous, and embarrassed all at once.
"Pretty girl…" I muttered aloud, ice cream dripping down my hand. "Ugh. He's so infuriating."
When he finally walked through my door later that night, the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Black tuxedo still faintly smelling of cologne, hair slightly mussed, smile sheepish.
"Pretty girl," he said softly, voice low, eyes dark with… something. Protective, guilty, teasing all at once.
I didn't answer. I just continued sulking, spooning ice cream into my mouth like it would solve all my problems.
He knelt beside me, sliding a hand over mine. "Anna was flirting, sure. But she's not me. And you? You're the only one I want. Always."
I froze mid-spoonful, looking up at him. "You… you call me pretty girl… but you flirt with her?"
He shook his head, eyes soft but firm. "No flirting. She's… oblivious. I didn't invite it. But you? You're the only one I see. Pretty girl, you have nothing to worry about."
My chest tightened. I wanted to argue, to sulk more, to shove the ice cream in his face, but… I didn't. The way his hand held mine, the way his eyes lingered, the way he whispered pretty girl — it made the jealousy and anger melt like the ice cream in my lap.
"You're impossible," I muttered, voice soft.
"Exactly," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "But I'm yours."
Later, curled up on the couch, ice cream tub between us, my phone buzzing with screenshots and fan reactions, I realized: the internet could explode, Anna could flirt, and the world could watch our every move.
But backstage, in the quiet of my apartment, Axel's hand over mine, lips brushing my hair, whispering "pretty girl" like it was our secret — none of it mattered.
Because no matter how many headlines screamed otherwise… I had him.