How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 78: How to Get Ripped Off

Chapter 78: How to Get Ripped Off

The morning light filtered through the window as if it were apologizing for showing up. The curtain, far too thin to block anything, let the sun spread in slanted lines across the room, lighting up the suspended dust dancing an indecent ballet.

The air was thick with the smells of old wood, last night’s onions, and sweaty skin all fighting for attention.

I was there, lying on my side, propped up on one crooked elbow, my cheek creasing a sheet that had probably been white once. I watched Lina’s room—it was smaller than she deserved, but more honest too.

No pointless decorations, just the essentials: bed, half-open wardrobe with clothes folded any old way, a chair stacked precariously with books, a pitcher of water, and an enamel basin with a towel that had clearly given up on ever being clean.

It was cozy in a spartan way. The kind of place you could exist in without asking permission.

I sighed. Slowly. The cold morning air burned in my chest when I inhaled deep. My throat still ached a little—from talking too much, or from saying too much, which wasn’t the same thing.

My mind wandered, of course. I’d been awake since before dawn, and the first thing that came to me was that damn article. Yep, the big scoop.

The juicy exposé. Today, the old newsman was going to print it, with or without my name on the masthead. The headline promised to sell plenty of paper, even if it ruined my life.

And I should have been more worried about that.

Should have.

But there I was, still in her bed, sheet pulled up to my waist because Lina had threatened to castrate me if I let it slip any lower. So... civilized.

The truth? I couldn’t think about printing presses. Or exposés. Or the smell of fresh ink. I thought about her. Her breathing still heavy, curled up on the other side of the mattress, her leg resting on my hip like she owned it.

Ah, yes. About last night.

Might as well talk about the elephant in the room before I sound more poetic than I am.

Yes. I kissed Lina.

Last Chapter even. No delay. Movie-style kiss. Which, obviously, went badly. She hit me. Not a soap opera slap, but a crack that made my ear ring. I cursed, she cursed back, I grabbed her again, she shoved me, and I held her wrist carefully—just enough to make sure she knew she wasn’t escaping this conversation. Guess what?

We kissed again.

Classic Italian film.

More shoving.

More kissing.

Fewer arguments.

Less clothing.

And then... voilà.

I’m not going into sordid details because this isn’t that kind of book.

Let’s just call it... a vigorous session of intimate proximity.

Vigorous indeed.

The kind of thing that made the bed creak enough that we had to pause to keep the neighbors out of our impromptu therapy session.

But for you, persistent reader who got this far hoping for anatomical study material...

Here’s the basics:

Fair skin, dusted with freckles. Some in places inconvenient to map without losing your train of thought.

Large breasts. Not textbook-volume large—but big enough to make me silently thank both the old and modern gods.

Curvy ass. No polite euphemisms. Really curvy. The kind that doesn’t fit small chairs and had me thanking gravity for existing all over again.

Strong thighs. Because carrying trays all day does more for muscle tone than any gym routine I ever tried.

Satisfied? Good. Let’s move on.

The truth was waking up there left me a little swollen with pride. Not just in the obvious way—calm down—but in feeling... enough. Not good. Not perfect. But enough. For her. At least for a night.

The system even tried to remind me:

[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Lina – Complicated but Positive.]

[Note: Watch for dumb comments. Charmcraft suggested.]

I closed that window in my head with a fond mental "fuck off."

Because in the end, there was no trick. No line. It had been honest. Brutally, dangerously honest.

She shifted beside me. Her leg slid off me, and she rolled onto her back, hair splayed out like fresh blood on the pillow. Her eyes opened slowly, puffy with sleep, first focusing on the ceiling and then on me.

For a second, there was just that. Two humans breathing in rhythm, sharing a roof that wasn’t really theirs, a space they’d invaded like trespassers.

Then I spoke. Low. Rough.

"Morning, trouble."

She didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes again and pulled the sheet up to her neck, mumbling something about killing me after coffee.

And I really was hungry. So I went looking for something to eat in that house.

The wooden floor creaked like an old man complaining about his back. I knew it well. Every splinter, every loose nail, every knot that seemed strategically placed to trip the unsuspecting.

It was the sound of Lina’s house—or more accurately, her family’s tavern—waking before the sun had the nerve to make noise.

And there I was, in my full morning glory, wearing her robe. A reddish thing with fraying gold trim, a cloth belt that refused to stay tied right. A bit tight in the shoulders, and it smelled like old lavender soap mixed with fireplace smoke.

Best part? Lina’s old man wasn’t home. He’d been gone since the day before, off restocking supplies. Which meant... dramatic freedom.

I opened the creaky kitchen cupboard, pulling out a chipped mug and a cracked ceramic teapot. I set water to boil. Tossed a handful of dried leaves into the bottom of the mug—something Lina called tea but I suspected was just scented sawdust. Still, it tasted comfortingly like home—even if it wasn’t mine.

I sighed. Sitting in one of the chairs, robe adjusted just enough to cover the essentials (and only those), I started drumming my fingers on the table, listening to the water bubble.

The bedroom door creaked.

I turned slowly, the smile forming before I even saw her.

She emerged, practically naked, the sheet still partly wrapped around her, slipping off one side with every step. Her tousled red hair fell in wild waves, looking more like an uncontained bonfire than a hairstyle. Her eyes were half-closed—either from sleep or anger, I couldn’t tell yet.

"Dante." Her voice was low, slurred with sleepy threat. "Where. Is. My. Robe?"

I raised my eyebrows like a priest about to deliver a blessing.

"Oh, this?" I spread the robe open a little, revealing more chest than was safe before breakfast. "Confiscated. Right of conquest."

She made a sound halfway between indignation and exhaustion.

"I’m going to kill you."

"You’ll have to catch me first." I took a sip of the tea, trying to look more aristocratic than I felt. "And let’s be honest—you’re a little... distracted."

She tugged the sheet up to better cover her breasts but couldn’t stop the flush climbing all the way to her ears.

"You’re an idiot."

"A sexy idiot." I grinned wider. "And officially the most popular man in Ashveil, judging by my morning contribution to the local paper."

She blinked, confused.

That’s when I grabbed the newspaper off the table.

"Look here, flower." I waved it like a trophy. "Front page. Sensational headline. Story of corruption, artifact smuggling, conspiracy. All thanks to me."

She stepped closer, still clutching the sheet, trying to peek.

"Let me see that."

"Patience, impatient one." I opened the paper carefully, smoothing the page. "Behold the art. The perfect lead. The sharp phrasing. It’s almost literary, really."

She frowned as I read aloud.

"’Sources confirm the use of counterfeit seals, shell contracts with the capital, and a corrupt redistribution system for magical artifacts.’" I chuckled. "Look at this, Lina. They even managed not to name too many names. Some went missing, sure. Nothing too glaring, but..."—I shook my head—"still, it’s good. It’ll make noise."

She lifted her chin.

"And you’re proud of that."

"Ecstatic." I took another sip of tea, clicking my tongue. "Glory, my dear, has no price. Imagine the pleasure it must be to spend a night with the most talked-about man in Ashveil."

"You’re ridiculous."

"A classic." I handed her the paper. "Go on, read for yourself."

She stepped forward, trying to balance the sheet with one arm and snatch the paper with the other. She nearly lost her grip, cursing as the sheet slipped and gave me a brief view of those large breasts she was so desperately trying to hide—which earned me a murderous glare.

She yanked the paper from my hand.

"Bastard."

"I know. But irresistible."

She read. Quietly for a while. Eyes moving over every column. Her brow furrowed. Breathing heavy.

I took advantage of the silence to drink more tea. Leaned back in the chair, robe half open, legs crossed with a diplomat’s careful grace.

Then she broke the silence:

"Where’s your name?"

I blinked.

"Huh?"

"Your name, Dante." She spun the paper, jabbing a finger at the bottom of the text. "You said they usually put it at the end."

I leaned forward, taking the paper back. Scanned the last lines. My heart gave a tiny jolt—but I didn’t show it.

The name at the bottom was someone else’s.

Gideon Marlow.

Just him.

No Dante. No "collaboration." No shared credit.

Nothing.

The tea went cold in my throat.

"Oh," I said, trying to sound light but my voice came out hoarse. "Must have been an... editorial error."

She stared at me without blinking.

"An error, huh?"

I didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were as sharp as the kitchen knives. My mental system pinged:

[SOCIAL STATUS: Credibility compromised.]

[Suggestion: Mitigate with humor or vulnerability.]

I closed the alert.

Looked at Marlow’s fat, bold signature. My chest burned. Not with shame. With rage.

Because I’d just seen it, in black and white: I’d been screwed over.

And worse: Lina was there to see it too.

I dropped the paper on the table.

"Son of a bitch."