[Author's POV]
There he was—running through the dark forest, desperate to save his life.
The cold wind cut through the trees like whispers of judgment, branches clawing at his clothes as he stumbled through the underbrush. From the alleys to the woods, and now back again, he’d led them in circles, as if chaos could protect him. But he had no idea who he was really dealing with.
This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t luck.
This was Sébastien D’Alfrento.
And Sébastien never left a hunt unfinished.
[Sébastien’s POV]
His footsteps were frantic—crunching dry leaves, snapping twigs, echoing just ahead of me in the thick, night-drenched forest. It was laughable, almost. The way he kept looking over his shoulder, thinking he could outrun a storm he couldn't even see coming.
I kept my pace steady, controlled.
Let him think he had a chance.
Then, I signaled my men. A short, sharp command through the comm—split up, fan out, tighten the net.
He was fast, but not smart. I had trained predators on my side.
My men advanced from the flanks, forcing him forward—right into my line of sight. The fool didn’t even realize he was being herded.
I drew my gun as his silhouette broke through a shaft of moonlight.
A clean line of fire.
One warning shot—crack!—echoed into the air, sharp enough to send birds scattering from the treetops.
But he didn’t stop.
He kept running, wild, like a cornered animal. That sealed it.
I aimed lower this time, my finger tightening over the trigger without hesitation.
One shot. Precision.
He dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, crashing to the ground with a scream that tore through the silence. Even then, he clawed at the dirt, trying to crawl away on one elbow, blood soaking into the earth beneath him.
Pathetic.
He didn’t get far.
By the time he looked up, he was already surrounded—boots stomping through brush, shadows tightening in around him like jaws.
He looked up at me—eyes wide with terror, lip trembling with unspoken pleas.
But mercy was never part of the plan.
I stepped closer, my voice low, cold, and calm.
“Game’s over.”
We had him.
[Rosalie’s POV]
I woke up to the faint hum of birds outside the window, the sunlight seeping past the curtains and painting soft streaks across the floor. My eyes burned, not from sleep, but from the weight of everything I had lived last night. The room was quiet—too quiet. My chest tightened as I slowly sat up.
Did she notice?
The thought hit me before my feet could touch the floor. My gaze flicked toward the door. It was closed, just as I had left it when I came back. I had tiptoed in, careful not to make a sound. But still… what if she heard? What if someone saw me and told her?
My stomach churned as I got up and moved through the motions—washing my face, combing my hair—trying to feel normal, look normal. But nothing about me felt normal this morning.
As I stepped out of my room, each creak of the wooden floor felt louder than usual. The silence of the house was maddening. It was like walking into a trap you couldn't see but could feel—waiting to snap the moment you let your guard down.
I made my way to the kitchen.
And there she was—my mother.
Standing by the stove, her back turned to me, humming softly to herself. That hum… too sweet, too calm. My gut twisted with unease. She never hummed.
She turned slowly, as if she'd known I was there the whole time. A smile stretched across her face, so warm it felt almost alien.
“I know what you did last night,” she said casually, like she was talking about spilled milk.
My heart slammed against my ribcage.
This is it. She knows.
I froze. My lips parted, but no words came out. I had none. My mind was already racing—thinking of excuses, lies, anything to—
“You locked your door and cried yourself to sleep,” she said, stepping closer. Her eyes softened with mock concern. “Poor thing. You must’ve been hurting so much.”
I blinked.
Wait—what?
She gently touched my cheek, stroking it with the tenderness of a mother I never really had. “You know you don’t have to hide your pain from me, right?” she said. “I heard you… all night.”
I stood still, numb and confused. Her hands were warm, her voice kind, but none of it felt real. It never did.
Relief washed over me—but it came tangled in exhaustion. I let out the faintest sigh, careful not to let her hear it.
Safe. For now.
But how long could I keep doing this?
I sat down quietly as she served breakfast, her mood unusually gentle. She kept talking—about how she’d prayed for me, how she understood my silence, how daughters needed their mothers. I nodded along, eyes down, hiding the storm inside me.
She had no idea.
And she couldn't know.
Then she left, saying she had some errands to run. Before stepping out, she told me to lock the door from the inside and not open it for anyone but her. I did exactly as she said.
I was halfway through my breakfast when a thought crept into my mind—who was he?
And why were he and his men chasing that man through the alley?
His voice... it was unlike anything I’d ever heard. Deep, thick, and commanding—it sent a shiver down my spine, shaking me to my very core.
And those eyes...
They did something strange to me—made my stomach flip like I was floating in mid-air.
Cold as ice, yet beautiful like winter mornings. I couldn’t explain it, but just looking into them made me feel something I didn’t even have a name for.
I came out of my thoughts when my phone ringed by a notification of a random app. "What was I even thinking?", I decided to take bath.
[Sébastien’s POV]
I stood by the tall window of my study, a glass of bourbon in hand, watching the early morning light seep through the city’s veil. The silence of the house was a rare comfort—one I didn’t take for granted. My jacket was still bloodstained from last night, draped across the armchair. I'd change later.
I didn’t flinch when I heard the faint click of heels approaching. The door creaked open without a knock.
“Sebastien” my mother’s voice floated in like a perfume. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No, you aren't. What is it?” I replied, without turning.
She exhaled a small laugh. “I came to talk about something important.”
I finally turned, meeting her hopeful eyes. She looked elegant, as always—pearls at her neck, her hair perfectly pinned. It was strange how someone so graceful could exist in a house that had forgotten warmth.
She walked over and placed a folder on the desk beside me. “I’ve arranged a dinner—tonight. A small, private setting. Just you and a lovely girl from the Moreau family. They’re well-connected. Her father owns textile chains across the south.”
I arched a brow. “You’re setting me up on a blind date… for business?”
“For connection, Sébastien,” she corrected gently. “And yes, for business. You can't build empires without bridges. You of all people should understand that.”
I downed the last of my drink and set the glass aside. “I don’t do blind dates. Or relationships. Or dinner with strangers.”
She stepped closer, placing a manicured hand on my arm. “I know you think love is beneath you. That it’s some foolish distraction. But this isn’t about love.”
“No, it’s about appearances,” I muttered. “About the lonely matriarch needing company in her palace of glass.”
Her hand stiffened slightly. The smile on her face didn’t waver, but her voice dipped. “I raised you in this house alone. You think I want someone here for me? I want someone here for you. You bury yourself in blood and business and forget you’re a human being”, she said smiling.
I said nothing. She took my silence as an opening.
“You don’t have to fall in love. Just… go. Meet her. Let her sit at this table. Let someone laugh in this house again.”
The words drifted between us like smoke.
I sighed, finally offering her the lie I knew she came for. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
I nodded once, but didn’t look at her. “But I might be late. Work.”
“Of course.” She smiled brightly and kissed my cheek, something she hadn’t done since I was a boy. “Merci, mon cœur. It’ll mean a lot.” (Thank you, sweetheart)
She left with a satisfied smile and a lighter step. The second the door closed behind her, I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath, “I’m not going.”
Just then, the study door opened again—this time without the grace or perfume. One of my men stepped inside.
“Boss,” he said in a low voice, nodding toward the hallway. “We’ve got something. About him.”
I glanced at the door my mother had just exited through.
He understood immediately and closed the door.
I didn’t want her hearing a single word of what came next.
Because I wasn’t chasing shadows anymore.
I was hunting the man who murdered my father.
Author's Note:-
Thank you so much for reading the Chapter 3 of His Only Exception. This story means a lot to me-it's a mix of everything I love writing: raw emotion, intense characters, dangerous choices, and the kind of love that changes everything.
Sébastien and Rosalie's journey will be far from easy. It's messy, painful, passionate-and full of secrets that could break them before they even begin. But I promise, every chapter will bring you closer to the truth behind their hearts.
If you connected with this chapter, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Your support, even a simple heart or word, means more than you know and keeps me going.💬❤️
Write a comment ...