[Rosalie's POV]
I stepped out of the bathroom after taking a shower and decided to wear jeans and a pullover. A moment later, the doorbell rang.
“It must be Mom,” I thought, heading downstairs.
“Mom?” I called out.
“Yes, darling. Open the door,” she replied, her voice unusually sweet.
I hesitated for a second, confused by her sudden warmth. Even this morning, she’d been unusually kind. She does this sometimes—shows me love and care, acts like everything’s normal. But the moment I ask for something she doesn’t approve of, she changes—starts scolding me, sometimes even hitting me. It’s always left me confused, wondering which version of her is real.
I opened the door and then went to sit on the sofa. She carried the groceries into the kitchen and then disappeared into her room—probably to change.
I turned on the TV, trying to pass the time. My studies are done, and I want to get a job, but she won’t allow it. Says it’s not right. Says I’m not ready.
After a while, she came out of her room and sat silently on the other side of the sofa.
"Do you want to eat something?", she asks.
"No", I said.
I know she wants to pretend like everything is fine, like nothing is wrong. She does this all the time—puts on this mask of warmth and normalcy, acting like we’re just any other mother and daughter. But this time, I’m not going to play along. I’m done pretending, only to end up being scolded—or worse, beaten—for wanting something she doesn’t approve of.
“But you only had breakfast. You should eat something. What about some fruit?” she said, her tone sweet but firm, like she was trying too hard to be gentle.
“I said no,” I replied flatly, not even looking at her.
I’m so tired of being locked inside this house like I’m some kind of prisoner. Last night, when I went out for a little while, I felt something I hadn’t felt in ages—relief. Fresh air, freedom. It felt like I could finally breathe. But here… here, in this house, I feel trapped. Like the walls are closing in.
I was staring at the TV blankly when a girl casually mentioned her father. I don’t know why, but the words just spilled out of me.
“Who is my father?”
Silence.
She looked down.
“How many times have I told you not to ask questions like that?” she said.
“But I need to know. Everyone has a father. Why don’t I? Why do you always act like these questions don’t matter?”
She didn’t respond right away. Just kept her gaze fixed on the floor like it held the answers she never wanted to give. The tension in the room tightened like a rope around my neck.
“I told you not to ask questions like that,” she said again, this time a little sharper.
“And I told you I need to know!” My voice was louder now, trembling with frustration. “You can’t keep hiding it forever. What’s so horrible that you can’t even say his name?”
“I said, stop it, Rosalie,” she warned, her tone rising.
“No! I won’t stop! You always act like I’m asking for something wrong, something shameful. I just want to know who my father is—why is that so hard for you?!”
Her expression changed. The calm, fake sweetness melted off her face. Her eyes burned with anger.
“Because he’s dead!” she yelled, the words hitting me like a slap.
I froze.
Dead?
I stared at her, my lips parted but no sound came out. My heart pounded in my chest as her voice grew louder, angrier—shaky now, like she was on the edge of breaking.
“You wanted to know, didn’t you? Then listen. Your father was a horrible man! He drank, he gambled, he smoked! He’d come home in the middle of the night, stinking of alcohol, sometimes with blood on his shirt. You think you missed out on something? You didn’t. You were lucky he died!”
I stood there, stunned. Her words felt unreal, like she was talking about someone else’s life, not mine.
“Then why did you marry him?” I asked quietly, barely able to speak.
She turned away, wiping at her face with the back of her hand, her voice cracking. “I didn’t want to. Why would I want to marry a man like him?? My father knew that your father was a monster but he still married me off to him because he wanted me out of the house, my father forced me. I didn’t have a choice.”
That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. My chest ached, my mind spinning with too many thoughts, too many questions. I turned away from her and ran to my room, slamming the door shut behind me. My fingers trembled as I locked it, then leaned against the wood, breathing heavily.
I felt hollow.
She didn’t come after me.
Minutes passed. The muffled sounds of the TV continued from the living room. Then... silence.
[Author's pov]
But what she didn’t see was her mother sitting calmly on the sofa, wiping her tears away—not with grief, but with practiced ease. Because she didn’t know the truth.
Her mother had lied to her. Again.
[Rosalie's pov]
It was afternoon, but the room felt darker than usual. I hadn’t turned on the lights. I didn’t want to. I sat curled up on my bed, staring at the same patch of wall for what felt like hours.
Her words echoed again and again in my head. “He was a horrible man… You were lucky he died…”
But something didn’t sit right. The way she said it—the way her voice cracked and then didn’t. The way she wiped her tears so easily, like she'd done it too many times before. Like it wasn’t real.
And then it hit me—
She’s always shut down my questions. Always.
When I was little and asked why I didn’t have a father like the other kids, she’d scold me. Sometimes she'd cry. Sometimes she'd hit me. But never, not once, did she explain. She made me believe that not asking was the right thing.
But now… now that I had finally pushed too hard, she gave me an answer that felt stitched together, like it had been prepared in advance. Like a story she told herself to believe, or to make me stop asking. I didn’t trust it. I couldn’t.
What if she lied?
What if she’s lying again, just to win my empathy? To make me stay?
What if he’s not dead?
I pressed my fingers against my temples. My thoughts were spinning. I didn’t know what was real anymore. I didn’t know who to believe, or what to do. I felt small, like I had no control over anything—like a puppet in someone else's show.
And then… the thought came.
Leave.
The word floated through my mind like a whisper. I almost laughed at first. Where would I even go?
But I couldn’t ignore the pull. Last night, when I had stepped out for just a little while, I felt it—that breath of freedom. Like I was finally alive. Just for a moment.
What if I did it again? And this time I will find the truth of my father by myself, I just can't trust her.
Only this time… I wouldn’t come back.
I turned toward my small closet. My hands moved before I could think. I took out my old backpack—the one I used for classes I never got to attend anymore. I placed it on the bed and stared at it for a few seconds.
Just one bag. That’s all I would take.
Only what I needed—some clothes, money I had hidden away, my ID, my notebook, and toiletries and the tiny locket I always kept in my drawer even though I never knew where it came from.
I zipped the bag halfway, tucked it under the bed, and sat down again.
I would wait.
Wait for the sun to go down.
Wait for her to fall asleep.
And then I would go.
Not because I was brave.
Not because I had a plan.
But because I had to.
I couldn’t stay in a house full of lies anymore.
[Later that night]
[Rosalie's pov]
Tonight, I would walk away. And maybe, for the first time in my life… I would walk toward the truth.
I glanced at the clock. 1:00 AM. Just two more hours. Then I would leave.
To pass the time, I checked my bag again—Clothes? Check. Notebook? Check. ID, money, toiletries, the locket? All there.
I sat back on the bed. I had forced myself to eat dinner earlier—I’d need the energy tonight.
Lying down, my thoughts swirled—about the lies, the truth, the escape. I don’t remember when, but eventually, sleep crept in and took me.
Ring… ring… ring—
I sat up in a panic, eyes darting to the clock. 3:15 AM.
Thank God I set the alarm.
I sprang to my feet, grabbed my backpack, added a water bottle, and made my way to the window. I didn’t have a phone—according to my mother, it wasn’t something I should own.
I climbed onto the ledge and jumped—like last night. This time, I landed on my feet. It stung, but I was okay.
Moving quickly and quietly through the garden, I didn’t stop until I’d passed the boundary of the house. Once I was sure I was far enough, I ran.
My breath came in sharp bursts, but I didn’t slow down. Not until I found a narrow alley tucked between buildings. It was dark, cold—but I had no other choice. I slipped in and sat on a low pedestal, heart pounding in my ears.
I unscrewed the cap of my water bottle and took a sip.
Just as I started to put the cap back on…
I heard footsteps.
Getting closer.
I stood up slowly, my heartbeat loud in my ears. Out of the shadows emerged three—no, four—men. They looked like they belonged in the streets, their clothes ragged and their eyes gleaming with something twisted. Each one of them was either around my mother’s age or older.
Their gazes locked onto me like wolves circling a cornered prey, and a sickening smirk spread across their faces—disgusting, leering, full of unspoken intentions.
My arms instinctively wrapped around myself as if I could disappear inside my own skin. Fear gripped me, cold and sharp. My feet wouldn’t move. My voice refused to rise.
What was I supposed to do now?
Author's Note:
Thank you so much for reading the prologue 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.💬❤️
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