The Duke who walked out of Hell

It was Damian’s third wedding anniversary. He didn’t want to go to work; all he wanted was to be with Vanessa. But he had no choice. Today was payday, and he finally planned to buy her the bag she had been dreaming about.

He had imagined this moment countless times, rehearsing every word he would say when he surprised her. The thought of seeing her smile carried him through even the hardest days. His stomach fluttered with anticipation, and a small warmth spread through his chest just thinking of her.

Vanessa was still asleep when he left. He stood quietly beside the bed, watching her chest rise and fall with peaceful breaths. Part of him wanted to wake her just to whisper, Happy anniversary, but he didn’t want to disturb her rest.

They were expecting a baby in just a few months. The least he could do was make her happy. He had planned an anniversary outing later on -all to see her smile, to bring some joy to her, and to the little life growing inside her.He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, then walked silently to the door, his heart heavy with both love and longing.

At work, Damian picked up his cleaning tools as usual. His plan was simple: finish quickly, collect his pay, and go home to celebrate. Mr. Martins, his supervisor, had promised to pay him today. For the first time in a long while, Damian allowed himself to believe that the day might finally go perfectly. A small spark of hope flickered in his chest—brief, but enough to make the morning feel lighter.

But, as always, fate had other plans.

Damian was cleaning the windows when he spotted his supervisor. Mr. Martins was a short distance away, deep in conversation with another worker, Cynthia. They laughed and joked, oblivious—or pretending to be—to Damian’s presence. Damian hesitated, feeling the familiar sting of irritation coil in his stomach. He wiped his damp hands on his trousers and called out, forcing his voice to stay calm.

“Excuse me, Mr. Martins.”

There was no response.

Martins continued talking, laughing with Cynthia as if Damian didn’t exist. Heat rose to Damian’s face. He could tell he had been heard—the faint pause in Martins’ voice, the sideways glance—but the supervisor ignored him deliberately. His heart thumped faster, and a cold anger began to edge through him.

Determined not to be dismissed, Damian called again, louder this time.

“Mr. Martins!”

The conversation stopped. Martins turned sharply, irritation written across his face.

“What is it, Damian?” he barked.

Damian swallowed, feeling Cynthia’s eyes burning on him. “I wanted to talk to you about the day off I applied for. You remember—I submitted it weeks ago. It’s my third wedding anniversary, and I would really like to take my wife out.”

Martins let out a mocking laugh that made Damian’s stomach twist. “And what does that have to do with me?” he sneered. “Take her to Pluto if you like. Why is that my business?”

The words stung like a slap. Damian clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay calm, but his chest tightened. Martins had always been cruel, and Damian had learned to endure it—but it never got easier.

“I know it’s not your business,” Damian said quietly, jaw tightening. “I just need my pay for the week—and the day off I applied for.”

Martins laughed again, louder this time, performing for Cynthia. “Really? You’re miserable, aren’t you? What makes you think I’d give you anything?”

Damian felt his blood heat to a dangerous level. His hands trembled at his sides, fists curling, jaw stiff. “I’m not asking for a favor,” he said, voice steady but shaking with barely-contained anger. “It’s my pay. I am due it.”

“Oh, your payment is due?” Martins sneered. “Fine. Make me pay you then.”

Cynthia chuckled softly, and the sound cut deeper than the insults. Damian felt a hot surge of humiliation and rage swell inside him. The laughter, the mocking, the small power Martins wielded—it was too much.

Something inside Damian snapped—but he forced himself to keep calm.

“Let me have the money, please,” he said quietly, voice tight, forcing the tremor out.

Martins waved some dollar notes in front of him. “Come and get it,” he sneered.

That was the last straw. Damian’s fists moved before he could think, punching Martins repeatedly. Every hit felt like a release, every punch a mix of anger, frustration, and years of being belittled. Martins tried to fight back, but he couldn’t.

“Get off him!” Cynthia screamed, panic lacing her voice.

Other workers rushed over and finally pulled Martins away. Damian’s chest heaved, sweat prickling at his temples, his hands trembling. Martins was clutching himself in pain, his face twisted in fury and disbelief.

“Can I have my money now?” Damian asked, voice low but controlled, though adrenaline still surged through him.

“Get out of here, you mad man!” Martins barked, shoving the cash into Damian’s hand. “Leave before I call the police.”

Damian didn’t argue. His hands shook as he took the money, gripping it as if it were a lifeline. His chest was tight with relief, shame, and lingering fury all at once. Today was supposed to be perfect. He had planned everything carefully—a quiet outing, a simple celebration, just the two of them.

He stopped at the store and saw the bag Vanessa had been dreaming about. His fingers brushed over it reverently. He could almost picture the look on her face. With the money Martins had given him, he bought it. Holding it in his hands, a smile broke across his face. This was everything he had worked for—the moment he had been imagining for months.

But when he got home, the house was empty.

A cold knot of unease formed in his chest. He pulled out his phone and called Vanessa. No answer. He tried again. Still nothing. Panic prickled at the edges of his mind.

Where could she have gone? he wondered. His hands shook as he hopped into the bathroom, changed his clothes, and forced himself to stay calm. She would be here soon, and then he could surprise her, just like he had planned.

Then the door opened.Vanessa walked in, her steps slow but deliberate, and Damian immediately noticed her baby bump rising and falling with each movement. His heart lurched.

“Hi, babe. Are you okay?” he asked, voice trembling slightly. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Hospital?” he asked, his voice tight with panic. “Is something wrong with the baby? Are you okay?” His hands trembled slightly as he took a step toward her, fear clawing at his chest.

Vanessa looked at him, her eyes sharp, but her hands unconsciously brushed her stomach as if reminding herself—and him—of the life she carried. Then her gaze hardened. “Why did you hit Mr. Martins?” she demanded, cutting through his panic.

Damian froze, fear and confusion crashing together. “I… I don’t understand,” he whispered, dread tightening his throat. “I’m more worried about you and the baby than anything else!”

“Are you sure about that?” Vanessa asked, her voice sharp, eyes blazing with anger. “If you were really concerned about us… about the baby… you wouldn’t have behaved the way you did.”

Damian froze, confusion and dread coiling in his stomach. “I… I don’t understand,” he stammered.

“What don’t you understand? Are you a thug now? You hit people? You hit your supervisor? Do you know what I had to do to get you that job?” Her voice was sharp, trembling with controlled anger, hands clenching at her sides.

Damian swallowed hard. “What do you mean… Vanessa?” he whispered, voice faltering. His mind raced to connect the dots. Then, curiosity and shock mingled in his chest. “How… how did you know I hit my supervisor?”

Vanessa ignored the question, her gaze cold and unwavering. “Damian… I can’t do this anymore. I am tired. I want out from the sham we call a marriage. I want a divorce.”

Damian’s legs felt weak, and the world seemed to tilt around him. He had imagined this morning so differently—the surprise, the gift, the quiet celebration of their third anniversary.

He had rehearsed her smile, her laughter… not this. He stared at her, stunned, his chest tightening as if someone had pressed down on it.

“Vanessa… What are you saying?” he whispered, voice hollow, disbelief written across every feature.