How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 48: How to Outdrink a Liar and Outtalk the Truth (3)

While Thalia kept chatting, I made my way to the far corner of the tavern. A young guy in an apron was cleaning glasses with more vigor than hygiene.

"That lady over there," I murmured, "caught quite a bit of attention tonight."

He shot me a quick glance. Evaluating.

"Is she rich?"

"Rich in questions."

He laughed. Low.

"Then she’ll end up broke."

I smiled.

Because I knew that’s where the real answers were.

While Thalia charmed the oblivious upper crust, I was listening to the floorboards.

And by the end of the night, the one who’d find the right piece of the puzzle... would still be me.

"You been working here long?" I asked, pulling up a stool and sitting like I had nowhere to be.

"Too long," he replied, still scrubbing the same glass that should’ve died two cleanings ago. "Since back when ’The Bard’s Bladder’ used to be called ’The Three Swigs.’ That’s... five owners and two bodies ago."

"Two bodies?"

"One fell down the stairs. The other tripped over a debt. Different problems, same ending."

"Comforting."

He shrugged, grabbed another dirty glass, and started the whole ritual over. The rag was more symbolic than useful.

"And you?" he asked, glancing sideways. "Don’t look like you came for the music."

"Came for the conversation. And maybe, if I’m lucky, a sliver of truth floating in the foam."

He let out a dry laugh. No teeth involved.

"This ain’t no library, pal. Around here, telling the truth might earn you a drink in the face."

"Yeah. But if you listen close enough, sometimes you walk out with a map."

He studied me for a moment. Curious. Suspicious. But still curious.

"What exactly are you after?"

"A story. A rumor. A sign. A name. A memory.

Anything worth more than the watered-down wine you serve."

"Bold for an out-of-towner."

"Necessary for a survivor."

He dropped the glass into the sink and leaned on the bar, finally looking at me like someone willing to play — but not yet to lose.

"And what if I told you some things are better left unknown?"

"I’d say some things are better known first."

"And what if I told you the last guy who got too curious in here left with a bottle broken between his ribs?"

"I’d say his mistake was trusting too easily.

I only trust what comes after a ’but.’"

The guy laughed — for real this time.

"Alright. You’ve got some talk in you."

"And you’ve got the kind of under-eye circles that say you’ve seen more than you ever asked to."

He narrowed his eyes. Rubbed his chin with the filthy rag.

"What are you really looking for?"

"A seal."

"Like on a letter?"

"Like on a threat."

Silence.

For a moment, the only sounds were cutlery clinking on nearby tables, and Thalia’s muffled laugh as she made the old man at the bar shake his head like he’d just time-traveled fifteen years back.

The bartender studied me. More calmly this time.

"This seal... triangle?"

"No. Three interlocked claws."

He didn’t respond. Didn’t fake surprise. Didn’t look away either. He just scrubbed the counter at a spot that was already dry.

"That’s old stuff."

"Older than the last time these walls were painted?"

"Older than the last owner. Older than most coins that pass through here."

"And why is it still around?"

"’Cause some things don’t die. They just change names."

I leaned slightly over the bar.

"And what’s the name now?"

He shook his head.

"That’s not how it works. You’re coming in here with a knife where you need a spoon."

"I’m the type that learns from mistakes. And from the right drinks."

"Are you now? Then tell me this — why would I tell you anything?"

"Because unlike the other curious men who’ve passed through here... I didn’t come asking who. I came asking when."

Silence again.

This time, he glanced around. Just for a second. Like someone checking if anyone was listening — or weighing whether what he had to say was worth the risk.

"You drink?" he asked.

"With moderation and intent."

"Then sit down and act like a customer. This kind of talk doesn’t work when you’re standing like you’re taking inventory."

"I can pay."

"That’s not it. It’s just that... information has to think it was her idea to show up."

I smiled.

Finally.

The conversation had turned.

I ordered a drink. Nothing fancy — just enough to justify staying. The guy grabbed a dark bottle and filled half the glass with an amber liquid that smelled like wood, vanilla... and distrust.

"Name?" I asked.

"The drink?"

"Yeah."

"’Round here we call it Regret."

"Fitting."

I took a sip. Strong. Sharp.

It burned down my throat like it was trying to carve out space for the truth.

He leaned on the counter, still wearing that stained apron, arms crossed. But now he was listening. For real. Not as staff — as someone who knew this subject was bigger than the bar.

"You mentioned the claws," he said, still not looking straight at me. "Three. Interlocked."

I gave a slow nod.

"That symbol’s been popping up here for a while. But no one calls it a ’seal’ anymore. They call it a mark."

"A mark of what?"

"Belonging."

"Belonging to who?"

"That’s the thing. Depends who you ask.

Some say it’s tied to an old cult, still breathing under the city. Others claim it’s just rich folks playing at secret societies. But what’s most likely..."

"Is?"

He looked at me — for the first time with something solid behind the eyes.

"It’s both."

Silence.

I stared at him a second longer, then tilted my glass slowly.

"So... anyone with that mark is part of something?"

"Part of it — and not always aware."

"What do you mean?"

"You ever heard of magical contracts?"

I nodded. But let him keep going.

"They say the mark shows up after the deal. Not before.

Like the symbol isn’t an invitation... it’s a consequence.

A way to show someone’s already in — even if they don’t know how it happened."

"Like a scar."

"Yeah.

Except it’s alive."

His voice dropped lower. Like the word was too heavy to leave floating in the air.

"Has anyone around here ever shown up with that mark?"

He hesitated.

Started cleaning another glass — one that didn’t need it. Just a reflex. A shield.

And that’s when the question got stuck in his throat.

Because beneath the talk, under the words he’d spoken and the ones he held back with his teeth, I felt it.

Something bigger was circling us.

A truth with claws, pacing the edge of the conversation like a starving thing.

And me? I’d seen this before.

People stepping without knowing they were walking through a minefield.

And the worst part?

Some part of me... wanted to step in.

I wanted to hear it.

Even knowing that after the next answer,

there might be no way back.