You Fight Like A Noodle

“Do you really have to ask that?” Colt snapped, his fists clenched. “Your daughter is married to someone inhuman, and you're not even worried?!”

Jen Wells didn’t flinch. She folded her arms, tone dry. “Who are you to complain? We can do whatever we want with our daughter. As long as she's alive and bringing in money, I see no issue.”

Lily nodded beside her with an approving smile, sipping water like this was just casual dinner talk.

Austin, silent until now, stared at his mother with raw hatred—like he was seeing her for the first time. His jaw tightened.

“Enough,” Mr. Wells finally spoke, his voice grim. “I’m going with Colt.”

Lily scoffed. “Seriously?”

“Can I tag along too?” Austin asked. For a second, hope sparked in his tired eyes.

“Sure,” the man replied. But deep down, he knew the truth: What power did he have in front of a man like Sergei Kuznetsov?

None.

—

A soft, persistent knock pulled Avery from sleep.

She dragged herself from bed, her hair a sleepy mess, and opened the door—only to meet the stony face of Klara Petrov, bandaged and cold as ever.

“Mrs. Kuznetsov,” the headmaid greeted, her voice clipped and rigid.

Avery’s drowsiness evaporated. Her eyes hardened. “What now, Petrov?”

“By direct order from Lord Sergei,” she began, “you are to be treated as the estate’s queen. The favorite wife. You have access to all royal privileges. Every servant is at your disposal.”

Avery scoffed. “Not interested, woman.”

She started to shut the door, but Klara’s hand pressed against it.

“It is not a request. It’s from your husband,” she said flatly.

That word struck like a sour chord in Avery’s ears. Husband. As if she signed up for this.

“Tell your boss to save the royal fantasy for someone who gives a damn,” she snapped. “I'm not his fairy tale.”

Klara raised an unimpressed brow. “Noted, Mrs. Kuznetsov.”

The door slammed in her face.

Avery stuck out her tongue at the closed door like a child. “Ugh, her face smells like expired vinegar.”

Another knock.

“What now?” she grumbled, pulling the door open—and her irritation melted.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lisa beamed, stepping in.

“You look like someone could fry an egg on your forehead,” Lisa added.

Avery hurled a pillow. Lisa caught it effortlessly.

“That annoying headmaid told you too?” Lisa said, plopping onto the bed. “You’re the queen now, Miss Favorite Wife. More power than Anya, even more than Sergei’s first wife.”

“What the hell? Since when?” Avery asked, rubbing her temples.

“He made the announcement yesterday,” Lisa said. “Everyone’s talking. You wouldn’t know—you barely leave your cave.”

Avery sighed. “And why would Sergei suddenly promote me?”

Lisa exhaled. “Who knows with him? But you’ve just made a million enemies overnight.”

Avery’s eyes narrowed. “Speaking of enemies—where did that injury come from?”

Lisa hesitated. “Anya tried to… do something. She nearly got me assaulted. But Ivan showed up.”

Avery raised a brow. “Ivan? Someone’s got a crush.”

Lisa blushed. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t fall for him,” Avery warned, patting her on the head. “He’s charming—too charming. And probably dangerous.”

Lisa nodded but looked conflicted. Meanwhile, Avery debated whether to tell her about Kieran. But was it worth it?

Maybe not yet.

—

In another wing of the estate, Anya looked like a walking nightmare.

Her golden hair was tangled, face pale, dark circles deep as bruises. She smashed vase after vase, her rage uncontained. Every servant stood frozen, not daring to breathe.

“That witch… Who does she think she is?!” she shrieked.

“Lady Lilia—” one maid tried to speak, only to get a heavy ornament hurled at her face.

Blood trickled from her forehead as she stumbled.

Then the doors opened.

Lilia entered, cold and elegant, her wounds freshly bandaged. A maid helped her walk, while another followed with documents.

“You look like expired milk,” Lilia remarked, lighting a cigarette.

Anya's jaw tensed. Her silence was thick with fury.

“Maybe that’s why Sergei ditched you,” Lilia continued. “But I can help. Don’t you want your title back?”

“I do,” Anya breathed, almost desperate.

Lilia smiled. “Then end her.”

She leaned in, gently brushing Anya’s messy hair back, stroking her cheek.

The maid stepped forward and began reading:

“Avery Wells. Twenty-three. Parents alive. Pizza restaurant owners. One estranged sister. Seven-year-old brother. Studied at Roosevelt College, Newark, New Jersey. Known for violent temper and street fighting. Sold into marriage to Sergei Kuznetsov as debt repayment—”

Lilia raised a hand. Silence.

She whispered, “Avery Wells…”

Her eyes narrowed with an idea. A wicked one.

Anya finally smiled. She wasn’t alone anymore.

—

Lisa, heading toward Avery’s new room when she noticed Ivan’s coat—the one he’d draped on her days ago.

She picked it up and stared. Her heart raced a little.

Maybe… just return it.

She reached his door, only to stop.

Moans.

Not just noise—lewd, unmistakable moans.

Her heart clenched. Her steps froze. Her chest tightened like a fist around her lungs.

“Lisa, get a grip,” she whispered.

But the sounds grew louder.

She couldn’t bear it. She ran.

Back in her room, she slammed the door shut and hurled the coat into the trash.

“Why did you do that?” came a voice behind her.

Lisa froze.

Ivan sat calmly on her couch, lollipop in mouth, legs crossed like he owned the place.

Her eyes widened. “How the hell did you get here?!”

—

Meanwhile, Avery stood in her new chamber, staring around like an alien just beamed onto Earth.

The gold, the velvet, the marble floors… all too much.

“Mrs. Kuznetsov,” a maid said sweetly. “Would you like smoked salmon with caviar? Saffron-glazed duck? Or golden truffle soup—”

Avery frowned. “Just give me instant noodles. Or spaghetti. Something edible.”

The maid blinked, then nodded and disappeared like a puff of smoke.

Avery flopped onto the bed.

So this was what it meant to be a queen.

Moments later, while she twirled steaming noodles in a ridiculous designer bowl, a second maid entered, bowing slightly.

“Madam Avery. You… have visitors.”

Avery raised a brow, lips twitching. “Visitors?”

She followed the maid outside—and froze.

Standing by the rose-gold fountain in the Kuznetsov estate courtyard were the last people she expected to see.

Her family.

Her real family.

Her mother, Jen—dressed in her Sunday best, eyes sparkling with greed.

Lily—standing stiffly in a too-tight dress, her face pale with… something ugly.

Mr. Wells—silent, tense, his hands buried in his pockets.

Austin—wide-eyed and beaming.

And Colt—already moving.

He crushed her in a hug before she could speak. “You—You’re okay,” he breathed into her hair.

Avery blinked, stunned, as her younger brother clung to her like a lifeline. “Colt?”

Even Austin couldn’t hold back. “Oh my God. You look like… like someone from TV.”

Avery finally smiled. “You’re both idiots.”

Lily’s jaw dropped. Her sister—Avery—was unrecognizable. Her hair, makeup, the royal jewelry glittering at her ears and throat…

She looked like a queen.

She was a queen.

And Lily hated it.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Mr. Wells said quietly. His face was unreadable, but she saw the relief beneath it.

Jen’s eyes gleamed. “Baby, you’re… you're glowing. That necklace—wait, isn’t that from Van Cleef & Arpels? Millions of dollars! You look more beautiful than your sister. I could walk into church and boast to Madam Bishop Clara all week.”

Lily hissed, jealousy laced in her voice. “Of course she’s pretty. When she bought her way in—”

SMACK.

Jen’s slap landed so hard the sound echoed off the marble.

“How dare you talk about your sister like that,” she snapped, lips trembling with fury. “She’s turning our life around. What the hell have you done for this family?”

Lily clutched her cheek, eyes watering. “You’d sell your soul for a check,” she muttered.

Avery didn’t flinch. She knew her mother too well to be shocked. Instead, she turned to Austin, crouching slightly to hug him tight.

“You didn’t even call,” he pouted, eyes glistening.

“I’m sorry. A lot has been happening,” she said, ruffling his hair gently.

“You better visit,” he said. “That’s a pinky promise.”

They hooked pinkies. Avery didn’t dare let him see how badly her heart ached.

Their father stepped forward, trying not to sound worried. “Are they treating you well?”

“I’m fine,” she said simply. “Sergei’s not back yet.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly.

“If anything happens, call me,” Colt said, serious.

She nodded—knowing she never would.

“Let’s go,” their father said, glancing at the many cameras around them.

But Jen refused. “Let’s stay just a little—who knows when next we’ll come? I’m sure the kitchen here makes buttered escargot soufflé or whatever fancy people eat.”

Mr. Wells glared. Jen groaned.

One by one, they left.

Colt gave her a sharp, aching wave.

Austin smiled with everything he had.

Mr. Wells gave a single nod of respect.

Jen grinned like a lottery ticket had come alive.

And Lily?

She launched forward like she was going to pounce—but froze when two guards raised their guns instantly.

“MOVE BACK.”

Lily squealed and jumped back, humiliated, before running after the rest.

*

The sky was a deep ink-blue, the air heavy with quiet. The world below the estate was asleep, but Avery wasn’t.

She stood in front of the mirror in her grand chamber, her fingers brushing the fading bruises on her jaw. The memory of being helpless, of being pinned down and almost destroyed by men stronger than her, made her chest burn.

Never again.

She needed to survive—not just with her words or sass. But with her fists.

With skill.

Avery tied her hair up roughly, slipped on joggers, and pulled on a loose black hoodie. Her feet moved on instinct, past the guards, past the hushed corridors.

She knew exactly where he’d be.

*

Kieran was exactly where she expected—on the rooftop, smoke curling from his lips, hoodie draped over his head, eyes like silver knives under the moonlight.

She stopped at the edge, watching him quietly.

He didn’t look back.

"Hey," she said finally.

Silence.

“I was thinking about... learning how to fight. You know—stunts, punches, kicks. All that assassin stuff.”

He exhaled slowly, blowing smoke into the sky. “Congratulations.”

Avery bit her tongue. “You could help.”

“I could,” he said, tone dry. “But I won’t.”

Her brow twitched. “Why not?”

He turned his head slightly. “What makes you think I can fight?”

She folded her arms. “You saved me once. From those gangsters in the alley. Don’t play dumb.”

“I said I didn’t.”

“And I said you did.” Her voice sharpened. “Stop acting like some mysterious monk.”

He didn’t respond.

Avery narrowed her eyes. “Fine. If you don’t teach me, maybe I’ll go remind Sergei about your little relationship with Lilia. I’m sure he'd be thrilled to know his wife likes young blood.”

Kieran didn’t flinch. Not even a blink.

She smirked. “Still nothing? Okay. I’ll just use my ‘queen status’ and get you punished for breathing too loud.”

His lips curled slightly, a dry, almost mocking chuckle. “That’s your move? Blackmail?”

She stepped closer. “Whatever works.”

He shifted off the railing and walking away, but she blocked his path.

"Teach me."

He stared down at her.

“Fine,” he said finally. “If I beat you, I don’t teach you.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then I’ll train you.”

Avery didn’t think twice. “Deal.”

She should’ve thought twice.

*

The rooftop became their arena.

Avery launched herself at him without warning, fists swinging with the fury of ten lifetimes. She threw everything she had—her anger, her bruised pride, her desperation—but Kieran didn’t even lift a finger.

He moved like smoke.

Dodging. Stepping. Letting her exhaust herself.

She missed every punch. Slipped. Fell.

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

She got up again, her knee throbbing, but she refused to back down.

“Come on, pretty boy,” she spat. “Stop dancing!”

This time, he struck.

A single sweep of his leg sent her crashing to the floor, her back slamming hard against the concrete.

Pain bloomed.

She rolled and got up again, only to be slammed again—this time faster. Harder.

He pounced like a shadow. Unforgiving. Ruthless.

Avery kept standing. Barely.

Her nose bled, her elbow scraped, her ribs screamed—but she didn’t stop.

“You fight like a noodle,” he muttered, sidestepping another wild punch.

"Shut up," she gasped.

Again, he struck.

Again, she fell.

And this time—she stayed down.

Her limbs refused to move. Her hair was soaked with sweat, her chest heaving violently. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even see properly.

Still, she cursed under her breath. “Scumbag...”

Kieran stood over her, unbothered. “Do you think I’m nice?”

She didn’t answer.

He smirked. “I won, Stepmom.”

And just like that—he walked away.

*

The first drop of rain hit her cheek.

Then another. And another.

Soon, it was drizzling. Soft and cold. The kind of drizzle that sinks into your skin and your bones and your ego.

Avery lay there, broken and breathless. Her body trembling. Her pride in ruins.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that.

Until—

Footsteps again.

Kieran.

He returned. No longer smug. This time with a first aid box in hand.

He crouched beside her, set the box down, and gently helped her sit up.

“What are you doing?” she rasped.

“You asked for it,” he replied simply, unsnapping the box. “Now shut up.”

He began cleaning the blood from her nose, wiping the cuts on her knees and wrapping gauze over her bruised ribs. Every touch was careful. Deliberate.

Like he hadn’t just beaten her to the ground.

She stared at him through messy strands of wet hair.

“Dickface.”

He didn’t stop cleaning. “You’re welcome.”

She eyed his face, finally free from the hoodie. It was sharper up close. Unreasonably handsome. Cold, but calm.

“I didn’t know you were a crybaby,” he said quietly, wrapping her wrist.

“I’m not,” she muttered, wiping her face. “It’s raining.”

He tilted his head. “Liar.”

His fingers pressed against a fresh bruise—softly. Gently. Like he knew exactly where it was.

They were silent for a moment. Just rain. Just breath. Just warmth against cold.