My Two Billionaire Husbands: A Plan for Revenge
Chapter 116: First Blood (1)

Chapter 116: First Blood (1)

Duncan Veston and Orson, his ever-loyal executive assistant and confidant, arrived at the Tucker Mansion just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The grand estate loomed before them, its imposing silhouette a fitting prelude to the storm that was about to unfold, which Duncan already was expecting.

They had no interest in sharing a meal with the family—Duncan already knew what awaited him, and there was no appetite for pleasantries.

With quiet resolve, he declined the invitation and instead took refuge in the lounge, the very room where he and Bartolomeu Tucker had engaged in countless tense conversations over the years. Orson, ever at his side, remained watchful.

The heavy silence in the lounge was soon shattered by the measured tap of a cane against the polished marble floor. Bartolomeu entered with the kind of presence that demanded attention.

Followed by Annie and three hulking bodyguards, he exuded authority—tall, broad-shouldered, a man whose physique defied the years marked by the silver streaks in his hair. His sharp, handsome features could still deceive, but the weight of his name alone carried the power of generations.

"Well, well, well," Bartolomeu drawled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The elusive Duncan Veston graces my home at last. What an honor. A shame you skipped dinner—I had quite the guest list.

A few cousins, some in-laws... titans of the business world. Would’ve been an excellent networking opportunity," his voice dripped with sarcasm, each word coated with unspoken menace.

"But given your current state, I now understand why you opt-out of the dinner invitation. Looked like you got yourself into some deep shit," he remarked, eyeing Duncan’s bruised and swollen face, courtesy of Greg’s fists.

Duncan met his gaze with unwavering confidence. "I would’ve come sooner, but I had more pressing matters to handle," he replied smoothly, though his words left much unsaid.

Bartolomeu chuckled, his grip tightening on his cane. "Ah, yes. More pressing matters." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Would that be the miraculous resurrection of your dead wife? The same wife whose return led to my daughter being unceremoniously and cruelly thrown out of your house?"

Duncan’s shoulders stiffened, but he refused to waver. "Yes," he answered firmly. "Given the circumstances, I believed it was best to remove Annie from that situation. I had no knowledge of my wife’s survival. I was deceived just like everyone else."

Bartolomeu raised a single, skeptical brow. "Is that so?" he murmured, his tone unreadable.

Without breaking eye contact, he sauntered toward the portable bar, his cane barely tapping against the ground. In one smooth motion, he flipped over three crystal glasses, filled them with whiskey, and slid one toward Duncan, another toward Orson, before claiming his own.

Duncan took his drink in a single, deliberate gulp, then placed the empty glass back on the bar with a soft but resolute thud.

Orson, standing at his side, frowned. The move was uncharacteristic. Duncan was always composed, always in control—yet something about him seemed different tonight. Was it nerves? Anticipation? Or was it the quiet before the inevitable storm?

Bartolomeu’s sharp gaze flickered to the glass Duncan had just placed back on the bar. A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips before he mimicked the gesture—lifting his own glass and downing the whiskey in a single, effortless gulp. With a quiet clink, he set it back down, mirroring Duncan’s action precisely.

"In quite a rush, aren’t we...?"

*TWACK!*

The brutal crack of wood against flesh echoed through the room.

Duncan collapsed.

"DAD!" Annie shrieked her instinct to run to him thwarted as Bartolomeu’s bodyguards seized her arms, holding her back.

Orson lunged forward, but before he could interfere, Duncan—still sprawled on the cold marble floor—lifted a hand, silently commanding him to stand down.

The air was thick with shock. No one had seen it coming.

Bartolomeu, composed as ever, stood tall, gripping his cane—the very weapon he had just used to strike Duncan. The blow had been vicious, precise, and far stronger than anyone would expect from a man of his age. It landed across Duncan’s face with such force that his head snapped sideways, his body losing balance as he crumpled to the ground.

Duncan exhaled sharply, pain radiating from his jaw. His ear rang a relentless buzz that disoriented him for a split second. But then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he turned his head left, then right—bones cracking as he realigned himself.

He blinked away the dizziness.

The old man had drawn first blood.

But the fight had only just begun.

Annie’s voice trembled as she struggled against the unyielding grip of the bodyguards, her eyes brimming with tears. "Daddy, please...!" she sobbed, her desperation spilling into the cold air.

Bartolomeu barely spared her a glance, his expression eerily calm, his grip tightening on his cane. "Shh... baby girl," he cooed, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of affection. "Daddy’s just giving this man a lesson in respect. A man should know how to treat a woman—especially when that woman is my daughter, my blood, the sole heir to our empire. You are not to be disrespected, Annie. Not by anyone. And certainly not by him."

His voice hardened as his attention snapped back to Duncan, now lying sprawled on the marble floor.

"Stand up, you piece of shit."

The command thundered through the room, thick with rage.

Orson stiffened. He had seen dangerous rich men before, had stood in rooms with power-hungry tycoons, and criminals who thrived on cruelty—but none of them, not a single one, held the same level of pure, seething wrath as Bartolomeu Tucker.

Duncan exhaled, pushing himself off the ground. His movements were slow, deliberate, as he forced himself to his feet. But just as he began to straighten—

*WHACK!*

The cane struck him again, sending him crashing back down.

The impact was brutal, the sound of wood meeting flesh reverberating through the room like a gunshot.

"DADDY, STOP!" Annie’s voice broke as she screamed, her pleas frantic. "I’m begging you! Please, don’t do this—please! I overreacted, that’s all! Duncan and I can fix this, we’ll talk, I swear! Just stop hurting him!"

A heavy silence fell.

Bartolomeu turned his head, his eyes locking onto Annie’s tear-streaked face. For a moment, something unreadable flickered in his expression. Then—

"Tsk, tsk..."

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment.

The lesson wasn’t over yet.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Bartolomeu lifted his right hand and flicked his fingers—a silent command. Without a word, he turned away from the violence about to unfold and sank into the plush leather sofa at the center of the room, crossing one leg over the other as if settling in to watch a performance.

His bodyguards knew exactly what to do.

Like wolves descending on a wounded prey, two of them stepped forward, their polished shoes echoing against the marble floor. Duncan, still sprawled where he had fallen, barely had time to brace himself before the first brutal kick landed against his ribs.

Then another.

And another.

A sickening rhythm of forceful blows crashed into him, each impact more merciless than the last. His body curled instinctively, but there was no escape, no mercy. The air was forced from his lungs, his vision darkening at the edges as his ribs screamed in agony.

Then—just as suddenly as it began—it stopped.