How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 46: How to Outdrink a Liar and Outtalk the Truth (1)

Antoril at night was a different creature.

Lights hung from high windows like tired eyes, and the alleys breathed a damp mix of yeast, tobacco, and poorly hidden urgency. Some streets had music. Others, too much silence.

And there we were, walking side by side like part of something rehearsed — even if we didn’t exactly know the script.

She walked half a step ahead. As always.

Wore a dark, lightweight dress that swayed with grace at each confident stride. I followed, hands in pockets, eyes scanning corners, alleys, shadows.

From a distance, we might’ve looked like a well-adjusted couple of travelers. Up close, anyone could tell only one of us knew how to fake it properly.

"What if no one wants to talk?" she said suddenly, voice lower than usual. "What if people only say nonsense? Or if no one important shows up at the bar?"

"Then we drink, eat something, and try again tomorrow," I replied in the tone you’d use to calm a skittish horse. "But there’s always someone talking too much in a bar. It’s like a law of nature."

She didn’t respond. Just kept walking. A little slower now.

"And how exactly do I start the conversation?" she asked, eyes on the ground ahead like it might give her answers.

"You listen first. Watch who looks uncomfortable. Who seems bored. Who glances around when they talk. Guilty people speak with their bodies before their mouths."

She furrowed her brow like she was trying to mentally jot everything down.

"Or..." she said, turning with that smirk I already knew, "I could just... charm someone."

I sighed.

"Going with the pretty dress, corner-smile, and distant gaze? That really works?"

"Works better than your theories. A well-placed compliment melts any wall. Always has."

"Yeah. Maybe it does. But it might attract trouble too."

She stopped. Gave me that gleam-in-the-eyes look that always came before a verbal jab.

"I can handle myself, Dante."

"I know you think you can. But people who are too eager to talk usually want something in return. And sometimes, that doesn’t get solved with charm. It gets solved with threat."

She took a step forward, defiant.

"And that’s where you come in, right? The bodyguard. The leashed wolf."

"Let’s go with that." fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

I kept walking. And she followed — annoyed, but not backing down.

Clear tension. She wanted the spotlight. But I knew what I was doing. It wasn’t pride. It was practice. Experience.

The intuition of someone who’s seen too many people screw up because they thought being smart was enough protection.

"The truth is, you don’t like it when I take the lead," she said, like she was reaching a conclusion.

"I don’t mind you taking the lead — as long as you don’t do something stupid. There’s a big difference between heading in the right direction and walking straight into a trap."

She huffed. Crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. The anger wasn’t at what I said — but at the part of her that knew I was right.

We walked another block like that. In silence. Our footsteps competing with the distant screech of a badly tuned flute from some window.

I didn’t feel lesser. Or sidelined. Just... detached. Like someone who already knows how the trick ends but lets the magician perform anyway.

Because sometimes, letting someone’s ego run ahead is the best way to make an investigation move. She could draw the attention. Maybe even seduce a drunk.

But in the end, it looked like I’d be the one filtering what actually mattered.

And that’s how we turned the last corner.

The bar was wedged between two rundown tailor shops, like it was ashamed to exist. The entrance was narrow, marked only by a wooden sign that creaked in the wind, reading: "The Bard’s Bladder."

A fitting name: the kind of place where stories were told with more booze than truth. Charming. In the crooked, dirty way I liked best.

Thalia stopped, looked at the sign, then at me.

"Given the name, I just hope the drinks are decent."

"Given the name, I just hope they don’t explode."

She took a deep breath. Smoothed the front of her dress with both hands.

And stepped inside. I followed right after.

Inside, the smell was a mix of smoke, old grease, and something I could only describe as fermented despair.

The floorboards were uneven, the ceiling low, and the patrons looked like they’d been pulled from shady jobs to fill the cast of a washed-up noir novel.

Perfect.

Thalia walked in first. I followed, wearing my usual face — the one that says I’ve been punched and punched back on the same day. No one cared about me. But everyone looked at her.

She’d made the right choice. A dark dress — simple, but elegant enough to stand out in a dump like this. Hair pulled into a loose bun, with a few strands falling out just right.

Her expression: steady, but curious. Her gaze: not seductive — attractive by accident. The kind that made the guy in the corner stop rolling dice, and the old man leaning on the bar adjust his grimy collar.

And me?

I became part of the furniture. The silent muscle. The guard dog that doesn’t bite unless ordered.

She didn’t introduce me. Didn’t even glance my way. Just walked toward the bar like the place had been hers since childhood.

"Good evening," she said to the barkeep — a man who looked like a roasted potato and spoke with the voice of a damp plank. "We’re looking for someone who knows the backstage of Antoril. Politics. Trade. Seals."

I looked at her, a little stunned. Who in their right mind walks in and asks that directly?

"You looking for a book, miss?" the barkeep asked.

"Looking for a conversation."

She smiled. And the man — who clearly hadn’t smiled since his wedding — smiled back. A crooked, worn-out smile, but real.

Gradually, the people around began to notice. And so did I. She didn’t need to seduce anyone. She just existed with purpose. A presence that made the nearby conversations drop in volume, like everyone was trying to listen — but didn’t want to admit it.

I stayed put. Arms crossed. Watching.