How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly) Chapter 6: How to escape a kidnapping

The cart bounced like a drunk tap-dancer. Every jolt shoved straw deeper into my spine and reminded that I was tied up, kidnapped, and worst of all... part of a failing circus.

"You're gonna love your costu!" Mordrek shouted from the driver's bench, not even glancing back. "Recycled goat leather and fake feathers! Sustainable and dramatic!"

"I'm gonna shove every single feather where the sun doesn't shine, you lunatic!"

But he didn't hear . Too busy humming a painfully off-key circus tune while the wheels scread in shared misery under the weight of his delusions.

That's when I looked around. There were cracks between the planks of the cart. Loose straw. Crooked nails. And the ropes... well, they were tight. But not invincible.

I rolled to my side, searching for the slackest knot. I squird like a ticked-off worm, grinding my wrist against the lower loop, teeth clenched.

Every tug burned. Every pull peeled a new layer of dignity and skin. But giving up? Not an option.

I'd already suffered enough humiliation at the hands of a man who looked like the patron saint of creative bankruptcy.

After too much effort, I felt a soft snap! on my wrist—one of the knots gave way. Fueled more by spite than technique, I yanked until my right arm ca free. The left one didn't take long after that.

"You're still back there, right?" Mordrek yelled. "You're so quiet when you sleep. That's perfect for the mi-goat bit!"

With both arms free, I untied my legs, stood up, and in a blink, dove out of the moving cart.

I rolled across the hard earth, slamd my shoulder into a rock, and stood up with a face full of leaves and a soul full of indignation. The cart kept rolling a few more ters before Mordrek caught on.

"WAIT—WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!"

I ran. Like a limping cow in a footrace, but I ran.

"CO BACK, YOU'RE MY MAIN ACTOR!"

I glanced over my shoulder just in ti to see him clambering down from the cart—and then he threw a net. That damn net. But this ti it hit my shoulder, slid off, and flopped on the ground like a disappointed blanket.

When he tried to yank the net back toward himself, as if that would magically reel in, he got tangled in it instead, tripped over his own foot, and landed on his back with a very theatrical "UGH!"

I just stood there. Staring.

"That was... the worst kidnapping attempt in history."

"Well, the plan was improvised!" he groaned from under his own trap. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find raw talent in these woods?!"

"I don't doubt it," I said, brushing dirt off my clothes.

"You're seriously just gonna leave like this?! Like this?!"

"I believe in the potential of the Hypnotizer of Hyenas."

"You're throwing away your career!"

"I'd rather be broke!"

And with that, I headed down the trail into the woods, the moonlight lighting my path.

The forest swallowed again, and Mordrek's voice faded behind —blending with the creak of wagon wheels and the wounded pride of a one-man circus.

I stopped only when my legs ached and my lungs filed for divorce. Which took, approximately, fifty steps.

I slumped against a tree trunk, took a deep breath, and muttered to myself:

"See? This is what happens when you're too damn charismatic."

And that's when I saw it—off in the distance, nestled in a thin fog like the world itself was trying to forget it existed: a village. Jagged rooftops, smoking chimneys, oil-lamp streetlights flickering like gossip.

A village that reeked of decay but still breathed.

"So this must be Ashveil."

Knowledge. Paths. Strategy—here I co.

I crept closer with quiet steps, trying not to look like a sweaty, ugly outsider recently flattened by a circus net — which, to be fair, was exactly what I was.

That was when I heard it: laughter. Loud bursts ripping through the air. I turned toward the sound. A wide wooden building, with faded signs and foggy windows. A tavern, of course.

The heart of any village. Where drunken truths are more honest than sober wedding vows.

I paused in front of a window. Inside, the sound was alive. Mugs clinking, chairs creaking, people telling stories that absolutely never happened. And the sll... a heady mix of stewed at, sweat, and broken promises.

I circled around the side. Silent, the way only soone desperate and winging it could be. The shadows were my allies — and also my excuse for not making eye contact.

That's when I spotted a window left ajar, away from the main entrance. I crouched down, snuck closer... and peeked.

Inside, cigar smoke spun lazy spirals in the air. A fat man, dressed far too well for such a miserable place, leaned over the table. Narrow eyes. Low voice. The kind of whisper that always ant trouble. Across from him, another figure cloaked in dark fabric — straight out of a con artist's bedti story.

"The shipnts will pass through Ashveil just fine... as long as the paynt stays upfront," said the fat one.

His voice was oily. The kind that slides straight into your ear and sticks. The hooded man nodded, revealing nothing.

"And the outsiders?" asked the man in the cloak.

The overdressed one scoffed.

"Outsiders don't last. The forest deals with them. And if not the forest... we have other ways."

They toasted with a silent sip.

It stirred sothing in . A mory from another life. I used to be good at business — or at least, I thought I was. I sold dreams and lies, sealed shady deals, moved pieces across the board like a shadow puppeteer.

What I saw at that grimy table wasn't new. Just the sa old gas, with new masks. Two n whispering about dirty things, thinking they were untouchable... they reminded of myself. In a past life where whispers were worth more than honor.

I had no idea what they were planning. But it wasn't clean. And I'd had enough dirt on my hands for one day. Honestly, maybe for a lifeti.

But one thing was clear: sothing stank in that village. And for once, it wasn't .

That said, the best way to get power is to get information. And I wanted to know exactly what was going on in there.

I backed away from the window, slow, careful not to make a sound. The night was still my friend, and the mist — my cloak.

I knew the answers were inside those walls — or at least nearby. So I moved, cautiously, to the back of the tavern. My footsteps muffled by the music of the dark, I made my way to a door tucked between the shadows. Probably a service entrance. Or a secret one. Either way, ant for people who preferred not to be seen.

No sign. No welco. Just wood and rust. The kind of door things and people slip through. And as much as I was knee-deep in my own ss, a twinge of nostalgia hit . I knew this setup. Knew what it ant. And more than anything, I knew how to enter and exit without leaving a single footprint.

Old habits die hard.

I placed my hand on the doorknob and, with a gentle pull, it began to open — but at that exact mont, soone on the other side did the sa. The knob turned simultaneously from both ends, and for a single suspended heartbeat, the universe glitched.

We both froze, hands still on the handle, like two actors who entered stage at the wrong ti and refused to break character.

She had red hair tied in a ssy bun, with a few loose strands falling across her face — effortlessly, like she couldn't care less about looking perfect. Freckles dotted her pale skin like sunspots, a strange contrast against the green-tinged mist curling outside.

Her outfit was a waitress dress, cinched by a vest that looked like it was designed to hold in more than just posture — if you catch my drift. The kind of uniform ant to keep things in place, no matter how hard gravity tried. Sothing about her told she was used to blending in, staying unseen — even while looking like that, in a dusty, grimy hole like this.

But the truth was: she didn't know . And I didn't know her. That collision — of two strangers in a place no one was supposed to be — was enough to lock us both in place. Her eyes t mine. Wide. Alard. Way too wide for what I needed right now.

And before I could say anything...

She scread.

And the chaos erupted.

And all I could think was: How the hell am I going to shut this girl up?