How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 45: How to NOT negotiate with the devil (3)

We stepped out of the room. The hallway felt smaller than when we’d come in. The walls hadn’t changed, but the air had thickened. Like the place knew the conversation had been a farce—and was now mocking us for it.

Thalia walked fast, her footsteps hitting the floor like they were late for a victory that never came.

"He doesn’t know anything," she said, not even glancing back.

"He knows. And he lied."

She stopped.

Turned her head slowly, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

I crossed my arms, kept my voice low.

"He dodged every real question, picked way too many words to say almost nothing... and looked at me like he’d seen me before. And didn’t like what he saw."

She huffed. Crossed her arms too, like she was dealing with a wall that refused to agree with her.

"Dante... you’re great with metaphors. But this isn’t some conspiracy soap opera. We went in, tried to get info, got nothing. Sometimes that’s all it is."

"Maybe sometimes. Not today."

She narrowed her eyes.

"So now you’re an expert in body language?"

"I’ve been an expert in a lot of things. But lying? That guy’s a professional."

For a moment, I thought she’d snap back. Instead, she let out a short, half-mocking laugh.

"All right, detective. What’s your next brilliant theory? He’s a deep-cover spy from the capital trying to destabilize us with psychological warfare?"

"I’m not saying yes. But it wouldn’t even crack the top three craziest things I’ve seen this week."

She turned away, impatient. Like she wanted to end the conversation out of boredom, not reason.

"Sometimes, Dante, things are exactly what they seem."

"Yeah. But that’s just sometimes."

She didn’t answer. Just started walking again. A little faster now.

But I saw it. The way her jaw clenched. The way her fingers curled into fists for just a second before letting go. She hated being wrong. Worse—she hated that I noticed before she did.

And that... that was fun.

Soren had lied. And Thalia, out of pride or pure anger, hadn’t swallowed the fact that she’d been played. Maybe it was some kind of psychological glitch caused by her upbringing—like life had handed her everything on a silver platter, all spun sugar and no thorns.

Maybe, being who she was, she’d never heard a real "no."

Or never been properly deceived.

Just theories, running through my head at the time.

Either way, I was there.

And I knew it was a lie.

And that changed everything.

We walked back in silence.

Not the comfortable silence of shared thought—but the tight, bitter silence of someone chewing their own pride. Hers, in this case.

I could see it in the way she walked too fast through the alleys, like she could outrun the feeling of being outplayed. Her hands crushed the folded map nearly to shreds.

Her eyes darted from window to window like she expected the truth to jump out of one, holding a sign that read "I WAS HERE THE WHOLE TIME."

When we got back to the hideout, she went straight up to the makeshift room, tore off her cape, tossed it on the bed, and just stood there in front of the desk.

Paper. Pen. A pile of messy notes.

I leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Watching.

Reading her eyes.

She started writing. Then crossed it out. Wrote again. Scribbled. Stood up. Opened a book. Read a line. Closed it. Went back to the paper. And repeated the cycle.

"What are you trying to find?" I asked.

"A pattern. A clue I missed. Some name buried in the records. Some cross-reference with the claw symbol."

"And? Found anything?"

She shot me a look. The kind that stabs with an eyebrow.

"Not yet," she answered through clenched teeth.

I thought for a second. Glanced at the window. Night was starting to swallow the rooftops of the city.

The word left her mouth like I’d just suggested we dig for clues at the bottom of a sewer pit with our bare hands.

"Yeah," I said, keeping my tone casual. "Booze loosens lips. Musicians, merchants, unsupervised guards. And if we’re lucky, a politician with no filter."

She crossed her arms. Eyebrow raised. Judging not just the idea, but my entire genetic lineage for having it.

"That’s your big plan? Eavesdropping on drunk gossip?"

And that’s when it hit me.

She was ready to shoot down anything I said.

Not out of logic. Not out of caution. But out of sheer... friction. Classic protagonist syndrome. We could be headed in the same direction, but if the path was my idea, she’d turn around on principle.

And I knew the type.

Knew it too well.

I’d dealt with people like that for years—people with more power, more status, more voice. Supervisors, bosses, even judges. Men and women surrounded by flatterers, all terrified of not being the smartest in the room.

And that’s how I stayed alive for so long—at least in the early years: by making it look like the ideas were theirs.

If I wanted someone to make a decision, I didn’t command. I didn’t suggest.

I planted.

Said things like: "Remember? You said that."

Even if they never had.

And if I said it with enough confidence, with enough respect, and just the right hint of admiration in my eyes... They’d buy it. Because ego prefers a flattering lie over a challenging truth.

I’d done it with tired judges in muggy rooms. With commanders hungry for prestige. With miners full of pride and deaf to advice. The formula was always the same: give them the credit, keep the control.

And now here was Thalia.

Young. Smart. Too sharp to accept being the second-brightest mind in the room. She needed to feel like the compass—not just the path.

So I raised my hands, eyes honest, like someone just trying to rekindle a shared memory.

"Hey, you were the one who said that, remember? On the road to Antoril. That bars are basically info markets."

She hesitated.

Of course she didn’t remember. Because she never said it.

But she hesitated. Because she doubted her memory. And because the idea of having said something that strategic... was too delicious to dismiss right away.

"And you even mentioned that, with the right outfit, you could get any bigwig to talk."

Her eyes sparkled.

Subtle. Quick.

But they sparkled.

"I said that?"

I smiled.

"Word for word."

And just like that, the idea became hers.

Better yet... I could steer the whole night without ever looking like I was in charge.

She just had to think she was leading me.

She turned away, walking over to the chest where she’d stashed some clothes. Started digging through fabric and picking pieces with more care than she’d given her own notes.

"Fine. Let’s go. If some politician shows up, I’ll handle him. You just stand in the back with that face like you murdered the bartender."

"Understood."

She began getting ready with laser focus. I just slipped on my shoes and waited. I wasn’t about to dress up just to hit a bar, even if the planted idea was to talk to someone important.

Because, of course, I had a different plan in mind.

One that would work even better.