How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 44: How to NOT negotiate with the devil (2)

Straight-backed in his chair. Pen in hand. Steel-gray eyes and a deep teal shirt with cuffs so crisp they could cut glass. Hair combed like the wind had been outlawed. And the expression of someone who’d just written the epitaph of someone important.

He wore a long blue coat with silver trim, pale gloves resting beside a stack of sealed papers. His hair was combed with painful precision. His face—too symmetrical not to be hiding some asymmetry of character.

The room had no windows. Just tall candles and heavy drapes, like light and sound were smuggled in through legally questionable amounts.

The air was dry, scented with something woodsy enough to offend. I stood near the door, technically inside the conversation—but also outside it. Pretending not to listen. Listening to everything.

Soren rose with the kind of slowness reserved for men who never do anything by impulse. The teal-blue coat looked freshly pressed, the collar too stiff to be comfortable—but flawless, like a nobleman’s smirk. When he spoke, it was with the voice of a man who practiced every syllable in front of a mirror.

"Miss Thalia," he said with a slow bow. Almost bored. "And... your companion."

He gave me a short, sharp look. The kind that weighs a bodyguard by how many visible scars he’s got. I kept my face blank. Eyes steady. Shoulders square. Trained to look more muscle than mind—and less observant than I really am.

"My bodyguard," Thalia replied, with a scalpel-precise smile. "We ran into some... complications on the road."

Her voice was steady, but it carried that subtle layer of curated charm—the kind you don’t get born with, you grow into. And the kind that sometimes grates.

"I’ve always heard the inland roads were poetic," he said, idly spinning the silver ring on his finger, "though I was never told if that included bandits, rain, or spooked horses."

She let out a polite laugh. Just the right volume to sound genuine, with none of the weariness.

"Sometimes all three. But I made it in one piece—which is more than I can say for my last interviewee."

She crossed her legs with a practiced grace. Soren leaned forward slightly, his face now more curious than cordial.

"Ah yes... Mr. Barant, from Ashveil, wasn’t it?"

"The very one. Swore there was no scheme whatsoever, and two days later he’s caught in a grain cart trying to cross the border."

That made him smile. Not with his lips—with his eyes. They sparkled, if only a little.

"You do have a particular talent for getting into trouble with powerful people."

"It was either that or becoming a poet. And I don’t have the patience for rhyme."

That’s when I started to notice the game. They were testing each other. Words passed like swords not yet drawn—but already sharpened.

"A shame. I found your article on the Black Market Insignias quite... let’s say, inspired. Though a touch... optimistic in its conclusions."

The compliment came with venom. Gift-wrapped, but still pointed.

Thalia didn’t flinch. She never does. She tilted her head slightly, smile intact, and let the silence hang just a beat too long.

"It was my first big publication. I had more enthusiasm than reliable sources."

Soren nodded slowly. As if acknowledging the vulnerability—and already figuring out how to weaponize it.

"That’s rare these days. Enthusiasm. Most people write like they’re apologizing."

"I prefer to leave sharp questions in the final line."

"And bold names in bold font above them, if I recall correctly."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Otherwise, no one reads it."

Soren lifted a glass. Pale wine. Light hit the crystal like it, too, had been rehearsed.

"To your growing readership—and may your targets learn to run faster."

Thalia lifted her hand, but didn’t toast. Just traced her finger along the rim of her glass.

"To your sources—may they remain discreet. And alive, preferably."

They laughed. Polished, restrained. The kind of laugh you give someone right before a duel. Gloves on. Blades waiting. free𝑤ebnovel.com

And I just watched, silent, like a well-dressed attack dog.

His gaze landed on me. Not rudely—but with a calculated analysis. Like someone eyeing a horse before making a bet.

I held his stare. Said nothing. That was my job now. Human shield. The inoffensive kind that looked like he could rip your arm off if needed—and had the face of someone who probably already had.

Thalia sat without waiting for permission, adjusting her skirt like a court lady at a poker table. He noted the gesture with a faint eyebrow lift. Interest, maybe. Or just surprise at the boldness.

"I suppose you didn’t come all this way just for the ambiance," he said, voice low, gliding through the silence.

"The ambiance helps," she replied. "But it’s not exactly known for its hospitality."

"The world’s grown less so, wouldn’t you agree?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe ’hospitality’ just got a rebrand. They call it ’transaction’ now."

He chuckled. Dry, refined.

"I see you haven’t lost your sting."

"And you haven’t lost your spin."

They studied each other for a few seconds. Like duelists who hadn’t drawn steel yet. I kept quiet. Measuring pauses. Reading subtext. Noting what wasn’t being said.

"So then," he finally asked, "what’s the ’transaction’ you’re expecting?"

She leaned back in her chair just slightly.

"I’m interested in names. And more than that—in trails. Traces of old deals. Forgotten letters. Seals reappearing in the wrong places."

Soren shifted. Almost imperceptibly. His hand slid half a centimeter across the papers.

"Are you suggesting Antoril keeps... sensitive records?"

"I’m stating they exist. And that you’ve seen them."

Silence.

He spun a silver ring on his index finger—a tic disguised as charm. But to me, it was barely hidden nerves.

"And why exactly would I have access to such things?"

Thalia smiled.

"Because no one in this city moves between nobles, merchants, and thieves like you. And because you like to know things before anyone else does. What you do with that information... that’s another story."

This time, he laughed for real. A bit louder.

"Ah... so I’ve been painted as the crow on the highest tower?"

"They painted you as someone who never misses a chance to profit from a secret."

"So many lies in circulation..."

"No more than truths wearing masks."

He paused. Pressed his lips together like he was weighing whether to pretend to be offended—or just lean fully into the game.

They both went still. The silence had weight now. And I stood there, quiet, feeling each layer of the conversation peel off like a mask.

That’s when it hit me: she was trying to be interesting. To show she knew the game. But he’d been playing longer. And still... she didn’t flinch.

"Let’s be direct, then," Thalia said finally, her tone shifting like a wind about to change direction. "I’m looking for names. Old seals. Correspondence between Antoril and the capital. I believe you’ve had access to certain documents."

Soren’s fingers brushed the papers on the desk. Too slowly. His eyes didn’t follow the motion. False casualness.

"Names and old seals... So many stories hidden in stamps, aren’t there? Most of them... just dust."

"Some dust is worth more than jewels."

"Ah, journalists," he said with a half-smile. "Always chasing ghosts."

"And ghosts always leave trails."

He swirled a glass filled with amber liquid. Eyes fixed on the drink—not on her.

"These days I deal in more... practical contracts. Transport. Security. Delicate shipments. But old poetry? That hasn’t come knocking in a while."

Lie.

It was in the way he avoided saying "Ashveil." In the way he looked at me. Not with curiosity—with suspicion. Like he was testing me. Like he already knew the bodyguard standing there was more than muscle. And didn’t like it.

I stepped away from the door, slowly. Pretended to inspect the bookshelf. A corner of the ceiling. A chandelier about to fall. But I kept my ears open.

"There are rumors," Thalia said, "that a certain seal has resurfaced in Antoril. A symbol of three interlocked claws."

Soren raised his eyebrows. A well-rehearsed gesture.

"Three claws? Sounds like a children’s tale. Maybe a tavern crest."

Another lie. This time the slip was in the smile: too fast—before the joke had even landed.

"If anything like that were to appear," he said finally, "I’ll be sure to inform you."

"You can find me near South Square."

"Squares shift. Letters get lost. But... those meant to know, will know."

Thalia stood. Polite. Cold. Proud. Like she still had control of the situation.

He gave me a look that wasn’t a goodbye.

It was a warning.

I know.