How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)
Chapter 79: How to NOT Get Ripped Off

Chapter 79: How to NOT Get Ripped Off

The morning sun spread over Antoril with that lying shade of normalcy. The main streets buzzed with vendors yelling deals for fruit that smelled like nothing, kids running with stolen bags and old ladies fanning themselves like the heat was a personal insult.

And I was stomping through it all like a pissed-off bull, Lina’s robe barely tied across my chest, the crumpled paper in my left hand and a very sincere desire to turn the whole market district into a giant burning hole.

I didn’t knock on the door.

Didn’t even dream of it.

Marlow’s house sat in Antoril’s middle ring, the kind of townhouse with delusions of elegance: carved stone façade, windows with twisted iron frames, polished wood plaques on the door with a crest that meant nothing except bloated ego.

The brass handle was cold when I twisted it hard enough to make it complain. The door opened with a creak that sounded like mockery.

I went in without asking.

The floor was covered by a rug that had seen better days but still pretended to be red. The walls were lined with shelves holding books too neatly arranged to ever be read.

There were paintings of places the owner had never visited and heavy curtains that blocked more light than was healthy. The air smelled of fresh coffee, printing ink and hypocrisy.

And there he was.

Gideon Marlow.

Sitting in his leather armchair that seemed sculpted to carry the guilt of many arrogant asses. The desk in front of him was too tidy — stacked papers, polished brass inkwell, meticulously clean quills.

But what really pissed me off was the steaming cup in his hands. Real coffee, the kind that needed honest trade, provenance seals and a price too high for someone worried about rent.

He looked at me when I entered. Didn’t stand. Didn’t even look surprised. Just raised an eyebrow like I was an article needing edits before publication.

"Ah," he said, with that soft tone, trained, polished to sound sincere while never being. "Dante. What a pleasant surprise."

I crushed the crumpled paper in my hand and threw it on the desk. The sheets spread out, the sensationalist headline opening like a red carpet for my fury.

"Did you like my work?" I asked, not smiling. "I worked really hard. Literally bled for it."

He didn’t blink. Didn’t lose his calm. Just adjusted the cup on its saucer and nudged it to the side so it wouldn’t be stained by the paper’s fresh ink.

"It was a good piece," he said, like commenting on the softness of a corner-store loaf. "Sold well. The whole city will talk about it for weeks."

"Funny." I crossed my arms, feeling the robe gape more across my chest, not caring. "Just missing one thing."

He raised the other eyebrow, fake curiosity.

"Oh?"

I leaned across the desk, my face a handspan from his.

"My name."

The silence that followed was thick as syrup. He didn’t move. Just breathed deeper, like preparing for a response he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

"No one would buy the story with your name on it."

The sentence landed like a bucket of cold water. Not because it was true. But because he said it with that infuriating calm of someone who thinks they own the truth.

I laughed. Short, ugly, joyless.

"How convenient, huh?" I straightened up, raking my messy hair back. "I write it all. Investigate. Almost die. And you slap your fucking name on the front."

He breathed slowly, eyes locked on mine.

"I shaped what you brought. I rewrote sentences. Cut the excess. Edited the parts that would expose our sources."

"Bullshit." I slapped my open palm on the table, the sound echoing off the narrow walls. "What you did was clean it to look more heroic. More publishable. Then signed like it was all yours."

Marlow didn’t show anger. Just a deep, calculated weariness.

"Dante, you don’t understand. A name needs weight. Needs credibility. Yours doesn’t have it yet."

"My name wouldn’t change anything!" I shot back, my voice rising before I could stop it. "You know that. People don’t buy it for the signature. They buy the scandal. The story."

He sighed. Like a bored teacher.

"Your name would complicate things. The guard might question more. The mayor would get anxious. I have ties to the print guild you don’t. Understand? I’m trustworthy."

"You’re an opportunist!"

That’s when I heard the door creak open behind me.

Thalia walked in.

She wore the same wrinkled dress from the day before, hair still damp on her forehead, but her eyes were alert. She looked from me to Marlow and back again.

"What’s going on?" she asked, voice firm.

I turned around, breathing hard.

"What’s going on?" I laughed without humor. "Our dear friend here published my article. Just forgot to put my name on it."

She frowned. Looked at Marlow.

"Is that true?"

Gideon didn’t deny it. Just spread his hands in a theatrical gesture.

"Thalia, we needed impact. We needed weight."

She crossed her arms.

"And Dante doesn’t have weight?" Her tone was colder than I expected. "Because without him there wouldn’t be any story."

He lifted his chin, annoyed.

"Stay out of this."

"I’m in this," she said, voice steady. "I went with him. I saw what he went through. He deserves the credit."

I turned to her, my breathing calmer now, but the anger still burning in my chest. Seeing her on my side... helped.

Marlow sighed, setting the cup down with a dry click.

"You want credit?" he asked me, the tone returning to soft. "Fine. I’ll give you something better."

I frowned.

"What?"

He leaned back in the chair, fingers interlaced.

"A job. Here. With me."

Silence fell completely for a few seconds.

He went on:

"You proved you can investigate. Write. Survive. Everything I want in a reporter. Official."

I stared at him, jaw tight. Part of me wanted to spit on the offer. Another part... wanted to hear more.

He smiled.

"You wanted space to write. Now you’ll have it. But under the right name."

Thalia looked at me. She said nothing. But her eyes were full of expectation. And fear.

My system, of course, didn’t miss the chance.

[SUGGESTION: Accept the offer.]

[Dante’s primary objective: get published.]

[Guaranteed progress.]

[Credibility accumulated.]

I closed my eyes for a second.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Silence was the first thing I felt — not the silence in the room, but what settled inside when I stopped screaming. Because anger is tiring. And I was tired.

I thought about the crumpled paper in my hand, with Marlow’s name in letters that felt like they were spitting in my face telling me I was replaceable.

I thought about Antoril’s alleys, the guards dragging me in chains, the cold torchlight in the cell and Mordrek’s smile saying everything was going to hell — just very well organized.

I even thought about Thalia, who something told me had literally cracked something in her head.

And I thought about myself.

There was nothing heroic there. Nothing noble. I didn’t want to save anyone. I wasn’t doing this for "justice" or "truth." That was all smoke for people who wanted to sleep easy at night.

I did it because I couldn’t quit. Because there was no way out. Because I was in the middle of the game and didn’t know who I was without it. Because staying off the board hurt more than losing.

I did it because I wanted to see my name in print. Wanted to prove I existed. That I wasn’t just another idiot with no past or future, wandering from mine to mine, tavern to tavern, pretending not to care about the city’s stench of death.

That was all.

I didn’t want to be good. I wanted to be remembered.

Accepting his job? It was selling what little pride I had left. Swallowing shit with a smile and thanking him for the extra helping. But it was also having a voice. A weapon. A seat at the table.

Sacrifice isn’t altruism. Sacrifice is cost. And I was paying.

I opened my eyes.

"I accept."

Marlow didn’t smile. Just nodded.

"You start tomorrow."

I turned around without saying anything else. Opened the door hard enough for it to slam into the wall. Walked out heavy-footed, feeling blood pound in my ears.

I heard hurried steps behind me.

Thalia was following.

I left that house with my teeth grinding, fists clenched like they wanted to punch every brick I passed, and the door slammed behind me with a dry thud that echoed down the narrow street.

The morning air hit me in the face, cold and damp, like it was trying to wash me clean of what I’d just done, but there wasn’t enough water in Antoril for that.

I felt her steps before I heard her voice.

Thalia was behind me, her boots tapping the uneven stones in a rhythm that betrayed her effort to seem calm. When she spoke, it wasn’t an attack — which somehow hurt more.

"Dante, wait."

I stopped, but didn’t turn. Crossed my arms and stared at the end of the street, where the traffic was swallowing the night for good. Creaking carts, merchants raising their stalls’ awnings, the world going on like nothing had changed.

She stopped beside me. Breathing a bit faster than normal. Her hands clenched and unclenched against the worn seams of her dress.

"I didn’t know." Her voice came out low, hesitant. "I swear I didn’t know he’d do that. Take your name off."

I sighed. Long. Heavy.

"I know." I turned just enough to see her profile. "You don’t have to apologize for your father, Thalia."

She frowned, like that hurt to hear.

"Even so... it was wrong."

"Welcome to journalism, flower." I tried a half-smile that didn’t even convince me. "Truth doesn’t sell without a little makeup."

We walked a bit in silence. The sound of our boots scraping the ground filled the gap between words we weren’t sure we should say. Antoril closed in around us — buildings too tall for light to reach the street properly, alleys reeking of rotten fish and broken promises.

It was Thalia who broke the silence.

"He was... happy." Her voice trembled in a hard-to-define way. It wasn’t exactly accusation, nor defense. "With the article. He said he’d never seen anything so well done. That it would explode."

"It will." I agreed, without irony. "It’s good. Can’t deny that."

She glanced sideways at me, trying to read my expression.

"And the contest?"

I took a while to answer.

She pressed:

"Dante... you know what this means, right? That article. Even without your name on it, you did that. He’s going to submit it. Enter it in the contest. And if it wins..."

"It’ll draw attention." I finished for her, voice low.

She nodded.

"A lot. From all of Ashveil. Maybe even Malderra."

That bit me on the inside. Really. Because for the first time since I left his office, I actually stopped to think. Not just about my wounded pride, the hot anger in my gut, the urge to claw the fake smile off Marlow’s face with my nails.

I stopped to think about what it really meant to have MY name on that damn headline.

My name. In big letters. Accusing authorities. Exposing crimes. Pointing fingers.

My name.

Making it easier for anyone who wanted to silence me.

Because who would want to shut up Gideon Marlow? The respectable, well-connected man with friends in important places? No. It’d be the new name. The lowly miner. The half-orc with no pedigree. The kid with nothing to lose.

I saw it all fit together like pieces on a board. Marlow wasn’t stupid. Not good, but not stupid. He knew. He protected himself.

And me?

I realized it was the best thing that could’ve happened.

If someone wanted revenge, they’d aim at him. The known face. The printed name. I could keep working. Keep digging. Keep screwing them over without being the direct target.

I could be... invisible.

And when I realized that, a smile started to grow on my face. Not the pretty, practiced one I used to get people to give me information. Not the sarcastic half-smile that pissed Lina off. It was an ugly smile, crooked, a little sad. But it was mine.

Thalia was still talking, not noticing I wasn’t listening anymore:

"...and if it wins the contest, there’ll be an invite to the national newsroom. There’ll be sponsors wanting to fund. There’ll be..."

She stopped when she saw me smiling.

"What?" she asked, confused.

I shook my head, still smiling, feeling the blood move faster in my veins.

"Nothing." I shrugged. "I just... I just had a really good idea."

And I kept walking, letting her follow with that confused, half-amused look. Because she didn’t need to understand. Not yet.

But I did.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt exactly where I needed to be.