Dirty Pretty Words

ELLE’S POV

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

One tequila shot too many, perhaps. Or maybe it was the way my puffy face hid beneath the black mask or the borrowed Versace dress pinched under my arms, a constant reminder I didn't belong here.

The fabric scratched against my skin as I pressed myself against the wall, watching the elite of De-Fountain Academy twirl across the ballroom like they owned it. Which they did, in a way.

"Elle, this is insane. You're not supposed to be here.” I whispered to myself as I downed the remainder of my drink, the alcohol burning a path of liquid courage down my throat.

The masquerade ball was De-Fountain most prestigious event, hosted on the sprawling grounds of the academy itself. Only the richest, most popular, and seniors got invitations. Not scholarship kids like me who cleaned houses on weekends to help their moms with bills.

I spotted him then, through the sea of designer gowns and custom-made suits. Noah Bennett.

His mask, black with gold trim, couldn't hide those piercing blue eyes that had stared me down in hallways for three years. The eyes that sparked with amusement every time he humiliated me in front of everyone.

My tormentor. My obsession.

"Oh god, he's here," a girl muttered beside me with admiration.

I refused to take my eyes off Noah.

Noah laughed at something a tall blonde said, his head thrown back in that careless way that made my chest hurt.

The band finished their song, and polite applause rippled through the ballroom. I watched as the lead singer stepped aside, making an announcement about open mic time.

Something clicked in my head. Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was months of swallowed rage.

I stepped down from the high stool and pushed through the crowd. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I approached the stage, unsure of what I was about to do. The band members gave me curious looks as I whispered my request.

The lead guitarist raised his eyebrows. "You sure about this, kid?"

I nodded, slipping off my heels because suddenly the stage seemed very far away and my balance very precarious.

The microphone felt cold in my hand. From up here, I could see the entire ballroom. The masks, the dresses, the privilege. And there he was, right in the center, holding court like the prince he thought he was.

I cleared my throat. "This is for someone special." My voice echoed through the room, stronger than I expected. The chatter died down as curious faces turned toward me.

"To the boy who named me Puffy-L." I locked eyes with Noah across the room. For once, I had his full attention. "This is what heartbreak sounds like."

The first chords of the song started, something raw and angry I'd written months ago in my bedroom, tears staining the pages of my journal. I'd never sung it aloud before, but the words poured out of me now like they'd been waiting for this moment.

I sang about masks we wear and names that cut like knives. About cleaning other people's messes while drowning in your own. About a boy with ocean eyes who never saw the girl drowning in them.

By the second verse, whispers rippled through the crowd. I saw recognition dawn on some faces—the references were too specific. Noah's expression changed from confusion to rage.

But I kept singing. My voice cracked on the high notes, but I didn't care. The band followed my lead, the drummer picking up the beat of my broken heart.

Somewhere in the middle, the crowd started to respond. A few people swayed. Someone whooped. Someone else joined in on the chorus I repeated.

For a moment—one glorious, perfect moment—I felt powerful. Seen. The invisible girl was finally visible.

Then Noah was moving, cutting through the crowd like a shark through water, coming straight for me.