How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 35: How to Talk Your Way Into a Trap With Style

Night had already swallowed the sky whole by the time I made my way back.

Ashveil behind me looked like a charcoal sketch—dimmed streets, crooked façades, windows lit here and there like tired little eyes peeking out at the world. Most people were asleep. Others pretended. But no one cared about a guy walking alone in the dark, dressed too well to be a thief, but shady enough not to be trusted.

My steps were steady. New boots, full pockets, coat straight—and a mission. A damn mission with all the signs of impending disaster, but one that, deep down, gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: purpose.

Thalia was right where I’d left her, next to the mule that, under the faint starlight, looked like a monument to animal exhaustion. The creature didn’t even blink anymore. Just stood there, resigned, like it knew life was unfair and had chosen not to argue.

She, on the other hand, was more alive than ever. Seated, holding a small dark-covered notebook, scribbling with the focus of someone writing a confession—or a threat. The moonlight cut across her in soft outlines, and even in the dark I could tell she was getting impatient.

She snapped the notebook shut, tied it to the side of her bag, and gave me a quick once-over.

"You ready?" she asked the moment she saw me.

"In the most optimistic sense of the word, yes."

The mule let out a long sigh—or an existential groan—it was hard to tell.

We started walking. She rode like an exiled heiress; I walked like the reluctant servant, stumbling over pebbles and thoughts.

The road was different at night. Narrower. Less certain. The bushes whispered with the wind. The trees felt like watchers—not protectors. And the sky, a vast, indifferent ceiling, watched us back with stars that blinked in sarcasm.

Silence for a while.

Good silence.

I took the chance to observe her. As I always do with people who intrigue me.

Thalia wasn’t kind. Or sweet. Or easy to read. She had that kind of pride that didn’t make noise but clung to her spine, moving her gestures, tightening her fists when she didn’t want to show weakness.

She was trying to prove something. And not to me—that was a bonus. She wanted to prove something to her father. To the city. Maybe even to herself. That she was more than a dutiful daughter. More than a newsroom assistant. She wanted space, recognition—the kind of respect you don’t earn with an apron and a teacup.

And me... well, I liked seeing that in people’s eyes. Hidden ambition. Masked pain. People who fight with a bitter smile and think they’re fooling everyone.

She wasn’t fooling me.

"Everything okay?" she asked, eyes still on the road.

"All good. I was just analyzing you."

"You look like a crow waiting for the corpse to cool."

"A well-dressed crow."

She snorted, nudged the mule to pick up the pace.

"No need to rush," I said, trying to keep up. "Can’t we just be good friends?"

"I’m waiting for you to hit me with some charm. A life lesson, maybe. A move."

"Great idea. Want to start with your unresolved issues with your dad, or your inability to take a compliment?"

"Funny. I thought you were going to start with yourself."

"Oh, I’m not the subject. I’m the narrator."

She shook her head but didn’t argue.

And we kept going.

In the dark, in silence, under an indifferent sky and a suicidally stable mule.

The city was behind us. Antoril still far ahead. And right there beside me, riding between sarcasm and thorns, was someone who wanted to change the world—even if it was just her own.

The road stayed narrow, with the vegetation closing in at every bend, as if the path itself was ashamed of being so forgotten. The stars were fading now. Thin clouds began to brush across the sky, announcing that the night was about to shift its mood.

The sound of our footsteps—and the resigned mule’s hooves—filled the brittle silence. The kind of silence that begs for conversation. And me, being who I am, I never waste a good opportunity.

"So," I began, adjusting my coat as I walked alongside the mule, "Thalia, right?"

"No, it’s Gertrude. I only use Thalia for suicide missions."

"Wow. She’s got venom. Just like the spider that I kill. The name of the spider was Clotilde..."

She ignored me for a few paces.

I kept going.

"You write a lot. Journals? Poems? Hit lists?"

"Mostly the third. But I sometimes write poems about the second."

"How delicate."

"I am."

I let out a short whistle.

"Your dad said you like rebellious guys."

"And you thought that qualified you?"

"I’m practically the definition of rebellion, Thalia. Born to piss off important people and disgrace traditional families. That count?"

She glanced at me over her shoulder with an expression so neutral it hurt.

"You talk too much."

"It’s my job. I sell words. Some are expensive, others are free. These—" I stretched my arms theatrically, "—are on the house."

She let out an audible sigh and turned her focus back to the road. The mule huffed—maybe in solidarity.

We walked for a few more minutes. Silence returned, like a tired pet, sprawled out between us.

But I wasn’t giving up that easily.

"You know, Thalia, there’s something about you that intrigues me."

"You say that to every woman who doesn’t throw something at your head?"

"Yes. But with you, it’s different."

"Why?"

I smiled.

"Because you try to hide that you care. About everything. The paper. Your dad. This mission. Maybe even about me."

She stopped the mule, turned, and looked at me with narrowed eyes.

"I don’t care about you."

"Yet."

"Never."

"We’ll see."

She resumed riding, firmer now—which, for me, was practically a compliment.

The moon began to rise slowly, painting the road in faded silver. The smell of damp grass and dry leaves wrapped around us, and the cold started creeping up my legs like a bad memory.

Even without a response, every attempt to get closer to her was a little study. I didn’t want her to like me. I wanted to understand why she tried so hard not to. Why the armor? Why the sarcasm so sharp?

Maybe it was just her type. Proud. Rational. Wound up tight enough to hide her feelings even from herself. The kind of girl who grew up hearing she had to be strong not to be left behind. And now, here she was, riding under a shredded sky with a lunatic beside her, thinking she still had to protect herself.

That was fine.

I liked difficult people.

Difficult people make good stories.

And good stories sell.

The narrow road stretched on between twisted trees, and the sound of our steps was swallowed by an uneasy stillness. Even the mule—usually so dramatic—was quiet now, which in itself should’ve been the first sign something was wrong.

That’s when I heard the snap.

Sharp. Quick. A branch breaking just a few meters to our left.

Thalia stopped. I stopped. The mule... well, the mule started trembling like an old prophet about to announce the end of days.

The bushes were still, but the air around us felt heavier, like it was holding its breath with us.

Then we saw it.

Between the trunks, in the darkest part of the forest, two red points appeared. Not bright like fire, but alive—eyes. Watching. Fixed. Too high to belong to a normal animal. Too low to be our imagination.

More pairs appeared. Three. Four. Enough to make me swallow hard and take a slow step back.

"Thalia..." I murmured, my voice lower than I would’ve liked. "Did you bring a lantern?"

"Yeah. Why—?"

Then, suddenly, the eyes lunged forward.