How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly) Chapter 47: How to Outdrink a Liar and Outtalk the Truth (2)

The bar was wide, but suffocating — the kind of place where the low ceiling and wooden walls made every laugh feel more intimate, and every lie more acceptable.

There was the sll of old beer, cheap perfu, and worn-out leather from chairs that had seen more conspiracy than comfort.

At the tables, voices tangled in tense murmurs, glasses clinked in nervous hands, and everyone seed to know sothing — or pretended they did.

In the middle of it all, Thalia moved like a seasoned expert. Impeccable posture, asured smile, the kind of velvet voice that learns to negotiate before it learns to ask.

And ... I watched from a distance, leaning against a pillar with an empty glass, invisible enough to hear everything without being invited.

Thalia didn’t include in the dynamic. No exchanged glances. No silent check-ins. No space for to steer the wheel.

I’d dug the tunnel. Now she was decorating the room and choosing the furniture.

And, to be fair, it was kind of working.

A man approached her. White hair. Clothes of soone who used to have money, but still held himself with dignity. Maybe a retired councilman. Maybe just an accountant with a good mory. He touched her shoulder lightly and introduced himself as Magistrate Rhenmar.

Great. A na. That might be useful.

Thalia began chatting with him, laughing softly, asking questions with that lodic tone — the one she never used on , by the way. The old man leaned in. Spoke more than he should. Loose tongue, alert heart. His eyes fixed on her like he was mistaking beauty for credibility.

And I stayed in the back. Like a shadow. An unofficial spy on the conversation.

She was doing what needed to be done.

But alone.

And that reminded a little too much of my past life.

Back then the ga was different — less magical, more brutal — but the pieces were the sa. n and won who thought they were too clever to take advice. Who confused confidence with invulnerability. I saw people like that in every corner of the cave systems we called cities.

Take the case of Halden Mirrek.

Operations manager at Veltor Steelworks. Thirty-seven. Married, two daughters. Owner of a suicidal level of self-confidence.

I t him during an internship — admin stuff. I barely spoke, but I listened to everything. And Halden? He never shut up. One of those managers who smiled in convention photos and opened etings with phrases like "think outside the box" or "risk is what separates the great from the average."

In that spirit, near the end of the year, he decided to skip an entire chain of certified suppliers approved by the National Mining Agency and struck a deal directly with a group called "Northern Cooperation Extractives," a na vague enough to sound legit.

In practice?

Ard n pulling illegal ore from restricted zones, no environntal report, no chemical control, no nothing. It was cheaper. Faster. Quieter.

Halden pitched the idea as a "pilot project in alternative logistical integration." 21.4% reduction in direct costs. Delivery tis 30% shorter. Invoices issued by a shell company in Anápolis.

Brilliant.

On paper.

In real life? The second truck arrived with ard escort. The driver had burn marks on his arm and refused to get out of the cab. When the head of security at Veltor tried to report it, he vanished for five days and reappeared "voluntarily resigned," with a hush-hush settlent no one understood.

Two weeks later, Halden disappeared.

There was security footage of him walking through the parking lot. He never made it ho.

The next day, they found the body.

He was found in three pieces.

Inside two sealed chemical drums, abandoned near a dam about twelve kiloters out.

What was left of him was buried in a closed casket.

No funeral.

The police did what they could. Or pretended to. The investigation stayed open for almost two years before being archived as an "unsolved homicide with suspicion of third-party contract execution."

Deep down, everyone knew.

Halden thought he was too slick to get caught.

But in that world, charisma doesn’t stop bullets.

He died the sa way he lived: confident, optimistic, and surrounded by people who never dared say "no."

Then there was the notary lady.

Anaíde.

Firm voice, comrcial-grade smile, and a natural gift for looking more honest than she really was.

At so point, she started keeping certain docunts off the system — records of shady land deals, forged powers of attorney, the kind of thing dirty politicians love to bury.

She always said she wasn’t in danger. That she "had the right hands on the right shoulders." She even joked that the criminals respected her because "she spoke pretty."

What she didn’t know — or pretended not to — is that criminals respect you right up until the day they don’t need you anymore.

A year later, she vanished for three days. When she ca back, she gave no interviews, filed no complaints. Just closed the office, sold everything, and disappeared into the countryside with her face covered in scarves.

Word is, they threw acid on her. A warning.

To her, and to everyone else who thinks charm is a shield.

She was never seen again.

But I rember.

The stories repeat.

Always the sa script.

Too smart to listen.

Too pretty to question.

Too naive to survive.

And there was Thalia.

Hair pinned just right, voice sugarcoated in all the right places, eyes asking questions that felt like promises.

And the old man across the table lting like candle wax in low fla.

She thought she was in control.

Maybe she even was.

For now.

But this wasn’t the world I ca from. In my world, a charming smile could be read as weakness. A complint could turn into a debt. A lingering gaze might be the start of a trap. In this world, even praise had a price tag.

And if Magistrate Rhenmar was just a bored old man looking for attention... great. That’d be ideal.

But what if he wasn’t?

What if, behind that tidy suit and quiet voice, there was soone looking to take more than just conversation?

In my past life, danger ca slow. Through contracts, hidden clauses, whispered deals.

Here, it ca with blades, potions, and spells that slled like wine.

And ...

I knew how to recognize risk.

Even so, I didn’t move.

Because that’s how I operate.

Not like a shield. But like a shadow.

See, the girl needed to feel in control.

She needed to singe her fingers a little.

I knew things could go sideways.

But if they did, I’d just give her a nice, clean "I told you so."

I sighed.

She was laughing now. Tossing her hair, charming away.

But here’s a tip:

The truth always hides in the corners. In the edges. Where no one’s looking.

Because it’s usually the people who work on the edges...

who hear the things no one ever said out loud.