How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 32: How to Sell the Truth Without Saying Your Name

The room felt like it had shrunk.

The smell of burnt coffee and stale bread lingered in the air like an indecisive ghost, and for a moment, no one said anything. The only thing that moved was the smoke rising from Marlow’s half-spat mug, floating between us as if trying to escape the tension.

Thalia still held the tray, now resting against her hip, staring at me like she was deciding whether to laugh or hit me with it. Marlow was breathing through his mouth, eyes wide, face as red as a tomato in existential crisis.

And I? I took another bite of bread.

"Look, before anyone hangs me," I began, mouth half-full, "hear me out. My arguments are solid. Promise."

"This is going to be ridiculous," Marlow muttered.

"Absolutely," I agreed. "But it might work. First: your daughter is more presentable. She looks trustworthy. Unlike me, who could easily be mistaken for a smuggler with pyromaniac tendencies."

"One point for him," Thalia said with a grin.

"Second: she can talk to bureaucrats, guards, and nobles without them checking if the silverware’s still in place. She’s got manners, patience, vocabulary. I’ve got sarcasm, eye bags, and a worrying amount of improvised explosives in my bag."

Marlow grunted.

"Third: she’s already involved. She knows too much. And let’s be honest, Mr. Marlow... she’s not going to sit quietly at home while I run off chasing imperial documents and lunatic validators."

"I would stay," she retorted, crossing her arms. "Just not for long."

"Fourth," I continued, ignoring her, "if she comes with me, we’re a functional duo. I observe, investigate, think. She distracts, asks questions, gathers. A beautiful field operation."

"And the fifth reason?" Marlow growled, one eyebrow arched so sharply it could’ve sliced my plan in two.

"The fifth reason is... I like her."

Silence dropped like a sack of bricks.

"She’s got that look — the kind of girl who pokes into things she shouldn’t. Or are you going to tell me she always delivers coffee to her dad’s guests? No, I bet she was eavesdropping behind the door."

"I-I wasn’t—"

"You’ve got a way of challenging everyone. I like that. And you always talk like you’re always right," I added, locking eyes with Thalia, who, for a brief second, looked unsure whether to blush or spit in my face.

Marlow rubbed both hands down his face.

Thalia let out a sigh. Not of defeat. Of defiance.

"If he’s really going to dive headfirst into this mess, someone needs to make sure he doesn’t die or turn the imperial embassy into a bonfire."

"See?" I pointed. "Teamwork."

Marlow closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and for the first time, actually looked old.

"You two are going to be the death of me."

"Hopefully," I said.

"Most likely," Thalia added.

Marlow stayed silent long enough to make even the wall clock feel awkward.

He rubbed his face again, this time pressing his fingers into his eyes like he was trying to squeeze the world out of his skull. I knew that kind of silence — the one that comes before a bitter "yes." The kind of yes you only give after ruling out every terrible option and being left with the least catastrophic.

"You two have no idea the size of the shitstorm you’re stepping into," he finally said, voice worn. "This isn’t an adventure. This isn’t some detective game. It’s a tightrope between journalism and the gallows." frёewebnoѵēl.com

"Great. Balance has always been one of my strong suits," I replied.

He didn’t laugh. Neither did Thalia.

"If you’re going to do this," Marlow went on, lifting his eyes toward us, "you’re going to follow one rule: the name of the newspaper stays out of this. No mention. No ties. If this goes sideways—and it probably will—you don’t know anyone named Gideon Marlow. You’ve never heard of a printing press. You’ve never even seen paper in your life."

"And if it goes well?"

"Then we can talk headlines."

I nodded with a half-smile. Thalia too—more restrained, but with that sparkle in her eyes I knew all too well: the kind of gleam that comes from a person who can’t resist a good mess with a purpose.

Marlow then stood up with difficulty, walked over to a reinforced wooden cabinet that looked safer than the capital’s prison, opened an internal compartment, and pulled out a small leather-bound folder, stamped with the old seal of the Western Confederation.

"These are the documents that most need validation," he said, handing it over carefully. "Some are old seals, others are half-rotted records, a few contracts written in ancient runes. None of them are worth a damn... until someone says they are."

"And who can do that?"

"The Registry Validation Archive in Antoril. Or, if you’ve got the guts and the knack for bullshitting the system, the Imperial Notary Office. Either one would be enough."

"Piece of cake," I said, picking up the folder like it was a radioactive baby. "We’ll act important, call it academic research, and boom."

"If you say too much, or knock on the wrong door, someone will notice. And when that happens... there’s no coming back."

Thalia put her hands on her hips.

"Then we knock on the right door. And smile like two well-meaning idiots."

Marlow shook his head, defeated.

"Don’t send me letters. Don’t come looking for me. And for the love of all the gods, don’t speak my name—not even on your deathbed."

"Got it," I said, opening the exit door with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm that had been following me since breakfast. "It’s all going to work out, boss."

"You’re the worst candidates I’ve ever seen for a job like this."

"And yet, the only ones."

Marlow cleared his throat, like a man about to say something he’d rather choke on.

"Alright... since you’re going neck-deep into this, there are a few more things that need doing in Antoril."

"Great," I muttered. "Because I was really worried about not having enough work."

Thalia just crossed her arms and waited. Marlow pulled a yellowed envelope from one of the drawers, taking out three folded pages, scribbled on in haste.

"First task," he began, pointing at the first sheet: "you’re delivering part of the documents to a specialist. A ’neutral registrar.’ He’s... technical. Cryptic. Charges a fortune. But if you use the right words, he can confirm the authenticity of what you bring. Might even fill in a few gaps where the evidence is too decayed to prove anything."

"And is this guy trustworthy?" Thalia asked.

"Enough," Marlow replied, not quite looking her in the eye. "But hear me loud and clear: don’t mention my name. No connection to me. People like him tend to turn names into currency. And I’m not for sale."

I nodded slowly.

"So he’s like... a truth broker?"

"Something like that. He goes by ’Soren.’ That alone should be enough. If anyone asks how you found him, say you heard of him in an imperial archive room or some old trade forum. He’ll catch on."

I took mental notes. Soren. Truths sold with receipts. No Marlow mention. Check.

"Second task," he continued, raising another page: "here’s a name and seal cited in the documents you brought. Old records of a regional lord who ’disappeared’ years ago, along with his estates and the company that had contracts with Ashveil."

I took the paper. "Lord Eltan Rhoan." Never heard of him. But from the way the story sounded, it might as well have been describing Brelgrik. Unsettling.

"And the third item?" I asked.

Marlow sighed.

"Track the artifacts. The magical ones. The unstable ones. The ones being funneled into Ashveil. I want to know who’s buying, who’s distributing, how they’re crossing the borders, and who’s letting it happen."

"So you want everything, then?"

"I want enough to write the truth safely. I don’t need every box—just where it came from and who let it through."

I stuffed everything into my bag, right next to the slight knot forming in my stomach. The mission had just turned into three. Or four. Depending on how many times someone tried to kill us.

Marlow sank into his chair like a man who already knew where this would lead.

"Remember: all this is just smoke until it becomes fire. And if you’re not careful, you’ll be the ones getting burned."

I smiled.

"Then we better bring buckets. Or matches."

Thalia tapped the papers lightly with her fingertips.

"Let’s do it right."

Marlow didn’t reply. He just nodded—a short, resigned nod. The kind of approval you only give when it’s already too late to take it back.

"Alright, old man Marlow. Now I just need clothes and money."

"What?"

"Why so shocked? You don’t actually think I’m heading to a city looking like this, do you? Come on, the mission’s yours—be a dear and toss me some decent rags."

"Of course. Just what I needed..."