The Duke who walked out of Hell

Chapter Three

It had been a year since Damian was locked away like an animal.

Life in prison was brutal—merciless, unrelenting. Every day was a battle, every night a reminder of the mistakes that had destroyed his life. The walls were cold, the air heavy with dust and despair, and the echoes of shouting guards and clanging doors made it feel like the world outside had disappeared completely.

He lay on his cot most nights, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how everything had gone wrong. How could the same woman he had loved with every ounce of his being betray him so completely? How could the woman he had married—who carried his dreams, his hopes, and now their unborn child—turn her back on him in such a final, cutting way?

Vanessa. Her name still burned on his tongue. Even now, thinking of her made his chest tighten, made his stomach twist into knots. He understood that their marriage had never started the right way. Her father, Uncle Simeon, had pleaded with him to marry her after Damian had saved her life. It was supposed to be a repayment—a duty, a favor—but Damian had hoped for more.

He had loved Vanessa, truly, despite the circumstances. He had dreamed that one day she might love him back. That one day, she would see past the duty and obligation and see him.

But that day had never come.

Instead, he suffered. Every single day.

He had spent three long years trapped in this nightmare, wondering what had become of the life he had dreamed of with her. Anniversary plans, surprises, moments of joy—they all seemed like memories from another lifetime.

“Hey! You there—come here!”

The sharp shout of a warder cut through Damian’s thoughts like a knife.

“You haven’t been working all day, lazy bone. Move! Go till that field.”

Damian groaned. His body ached in places he didn’t know could hurt. His muscles felt like stone, his back stiff and sore, and even standing made his knees tremble. The exhaustion was physical, yes, but it was nothing compared to the weight of his emotions—anger, heartbreak, hopelessness, and the constant gnawing fear for the life that had been stolen from him.

“I’m exhausted,” he muttered, voice low, almost a whisper. “I… I need rest.”

The warder leaned closer, eyes cold and cruel, and Damian felt his chest tighten.

“Really?” the man sneered. “Next time you think about hitting someone so influential, think again. Do you even know what you’ve done?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously, trying to keep his voice steady. But he already knew. Somehow, the small act of defending himself—the punch he had thrown at Martins—had become a chain around his neck.

The warder’s sneer widened. “Mr. Martins? That little fool you punched? That was no ordinary supervisor. That’s the son of one of the biggest tycoons in the city—the man who owns the company where you worked as a cleaner. And because of that… you’re here.”

Damian felt the room tilt. No trial. No chance to defend himself. No justice. Only three years of misery for a single act of self-defense.

Anger flared inside him, hot and bitter, but he quickly swallowed it. Here, anger didn’t save anyone—it only made the beating worse, the days longer.

“When do I get my lawyers?” Damian asked, voice tight and tense. “You locked me up here without trial. How does this even make sense?”

The warder’s eyes narrowed, and he spat in Damian’s direction. “Go work. Or you’ll get the beating of your life. Now, move!”

Damian lowered his gaze and trudged toward the field. Every step felt like wading through mud. He could feel every aching muscle, every wound, every bruise as if they were living things, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. His mind refused to stop racing. Three years. Three long, endless years trapped in a cage, stripped of freedom, dignity, and the life he had tried so hard to build.

As he walked, despair began to settle deep into his bones, but then—a voice.

“Hey… you.”

Damian stopped abruptly, tension snapping through him. The field was wide and empty except for a few prisoners bending over the earth, working in silence. He turned slowly.

A man approached him, eyes calm but calculating. There was something in the way he moved—quiet, deliberate—that made Damian instinctively tense.

“I can help you,” the man said softly.

Damian’s heart raced. Suspicion and hope clashed violently in his chest. He wanted to lash out, to ask why, to demand proof, but the weight of three years of suffering had taught him caution.

“Help me?” he asked, his voice low, wary. “How? Who are you?”

The stranger’s gaze met his, unflinching, and for a brief moment, Damian felt something he hadn’t felt in years—possibility. A spark of hope.

“Yes,” the man said, voice steady. “But you have to trust me. No one here survives alone. Not for long. You want out, don’t you?”

Damian swallowed hard. His mind flashed briefly to Vanessa—betrayal, divorce, the life that had been ripped away, and the baby he would never hold if he stayed locked in this nightmare. Rage and despair clashed in him, burning hot. He wanted freedom. He wanted justice. He wanted the life that had been stolen.

“Of course I want out,” Damian said, his voice low but filled with a mixture of hope and desperation. Every nerve in his body felt alive, every heartbeat pounding against his chest like a drum.

The stranger leaned closer, lowering his voice even more, so only Damian could hear. “Of course you want out,” he said, his tone calm, certain. “Meet me after dinner. At the other end of the yard—before they hurry us back to our cells. I’ll show you the way.”

Damian’s heart skipped a beat. His mind raced. Is this really safe? Can I trust him? Every instinct screamed caution. Prison had taught him one thing: trust the wrong person, and you’re finished.

But the cage he had been trapped in for three years felt suffocating, heavier than ever today. The thought of freedom—just a glimpse of it—was intoxicating. I have to try. I can’t spend another day locked up like this… another year… another decade…

He looked at the stranger, suspicion etched in every line of his face. “How… how do I know I can trust you?” he asked, voice tight, wary.

The man’s expression didn’t falter. “You don’t,” he said honestly. “But if you do nothing, you’ll stay here. Forever. You’ve been surviving in this prison for three years. What’s one risk more?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to back out, to wait for more information—but deep down, he knew there was no safer option. Not here. Not now.

He swallowed hard, a knot of fear and determination twisting in his stomach. “Fine,” he said finally, voice low, controlled. “I’ll meet you. After dinner.”

The stranger nodded, a faint smile crossing his face. “Good. Be ready. And Damian… don’t let anyone see you. One mistake, and it’s over.”

Damian watched him walk away, every muscle tense. He couldn’t tell if his pulse was pounding from fear, anticipation, or the long-buried hope that maybe—just maybe—this was the chance to reclaim his life.

As he returned to the barracks, he kept thinking: I don’t know if this is right… but it’s the only choice I have.