[Author's pov]
The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened under the dull amber glow of the alley lights. His footsteps echoed softly against the cobblestones, steady and slow, like a man chasing ghosts. The city never slept, but here—in this forgotten corner of Paris—it almost did.
Sébastien ran his fingers along the brick wall as he passed, grounding himself in the silence. This alley, these walls… his father once ruled this part of the city. Now it belonged to him.
But it had cost him everything.
He paused near the edge of the alleyway, exhaling a long breath that turned to mist in the night air. The silence wrapped around him like a shroud. His thoughts, uninvited, began to whisper again.
"You were seventeen when they shot him. You weren’t ready."
"You had to become a man overnight."
"You buried your grief beneath blood and empire."
[Sebastien's pov]
I had rebuilt what they tried to burn. Brick by brick. Deal by deal. Bullet by bullet. And yet...
"Would you be proud of me now, père?"
"Or would you hate what I’ve become?"
My chest felt heavy, a pressure he could never quite push away. There were nights like this when I let myself remember. Nights when I wasn’t Sébastien D’Alfrento, the name that made men flinch—but just a boy who lost his father and was never allowed to grieve.
I closed my eyes.
And that’s when it came—the sound that tore through the stillness like a blade.
A scream. Sharp. Desperate. Close.
My eyes snapped open, body already in motion. The quiet alley became a stage for chaos, the kind I don’t welcome but never ignored. My hand moved instinctively to the pistol at his side, cold metal against my palm.
I turned the corner, footsteps silent now, a predator in my own city.
Whoever made that sound... either needed saving—or silencing.
I turned the corner, eyes scanning fast—predatory, calculating. There, in the mouth of a narrow lane dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp, six men circled a girl like vultures around a dying thing.
She backed up until her spine hit the wall, arms tight around herself, trying to shrink away. One of them reached for her wrist. She screamed again.
That was enough.
The first man didn’t even see the blow coming. He dropped to the ground with a thud, groaning as his jaw cracked under my fist.
The others turned too late.
I moved like a storm. No wasted motion—just brutal efficiency. Elbow to the ribs, boot to the stomach, knuckles across a cheekbone. One pulled out a knife; Sébastien slammed his arm against the wall until the blade clattered to the ground, then drove my knee into the man’s gut.
Within seconds, all six were either crawling or unconscious, groaning in pain, blood already painting the alley floor.
The girl stood frozen, eyes wide, breathing ragged. She clutched the front of her dress, trembling.
I didn’t look at her.
I didn’t ask if she was okay.
I simply turned around, blood on my knuckles, and started walking back the way I came—as if nothing had happened.
Like saving her had been just another task, no different than lighting a cigarette or shutting a door.
[Author's pov]
Her breath came in sharp bursts, chest rising and falling as the cold air stung her lungs. The alley was quiet now, the only sounds were the low groans of the men on the ground and her own heartbeat, thudding wildly in her ears.
She stared at the man’s back as he walked away—unbothered, unspeaking, vanishing into the shadows like he belonged to them.
He hadn’t even looked at her.
She glanced down at her trembling hands, then slowly loosened her grip on her bag, which had fallen to the ground during the struggle. Her fingers curled around the strap and she clutched it to her chest as if it were a shield.
Who was he?
Her eyes flicked up again. He was almost gone now, swallowed by the alleyway that had nearly devoured her too.
Something about him tugged at her.
Not the violence—though that had been terrifyingly precise—but something else. A presence. The way he moved. Cold. Controlled. Familiar.
She blinked.
[Rosalie's pov]
Have I… seen him before?
No. That’s impossible…
But then why does he feel like a memory?
My feet moved before I could think. Step by step, I started following him, careful not to make a sound. My heels were scuffed, her breath still shaky, but something inside me told me not to let him disappear just yet.
He had saved my life.
But more than that… there was a name flickering at the edge of my thoughts. A feeling.
I’ve met him. Somewhere. I know I have
I tightened her grip on the bag and followed him deeper into the alley, drawn by instinct, fear, and something I couldn’t name.
I was following him when he suddenly stopped and turned around. His eyes met mine—sharp, unreadable. I immediately looked down.
Slowly, I dared to glance up again… and those eyes—they sparked something. I’d seen them before.
Then, like a sudden flash of light, it struck me. He was the man I had seen that night, the one with the other men.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice cutting through my thoughts like a blade.
I couldn’t speak. I just stared at him, taking him in—his face, his hair, the sharp angle of his jaw, which was clenched now, tense with irritation. The longer I took to answer, the harder it seemed to lock eyes with him.
His voice… it held such power, such control. It made my words crumble before they could leave my lips. I was scared I’d say something stupid—gibberish—just to fill the silence and avoid angering him further.
[Sebastien's pov]
I stared at her.
The moment her eyes met mine again, it clicked.
That face.
I’d seen it before.
Not long ago—she’d bumped into me that night near Rue du Temple. She looked different now—disheveled, scared—but I never forget a face. Especially not eyes like hers. Wide, uncertain, but not empty. Not stupid, either. Just... lost.
My jaw tightened.
What the hell was she doing here?
“I asked you a question,” I said, voice firm. “What do you want?”
She didn’t speak. Just kept looking at me like I was something she couldn’t understand. Like I was some kind of puzzle she was trying to solve.
I hated that look.
I didn’t like being studied. I wasn’t some savior. I’d taken out those bastards because I couldn’t stand cowards cornering a woman. That was it. She just happened to be there.
And now she was following me.
I took a step forward, eyes fixed on hers.
“Speak.”
She finally parted her lips, but her voice was barely a whisper.
“Nothing…”
Her eyes dropped to the ground again, like she regretted saying even that much.
I stared at her.
Nothing?
I clenched my jaw harder, exhaling slowly through my nose. I didn’t have patience for this. She was clearly shaken, clearly following me for a reason—but now she wanted to play silent?
Fine.
“Then why the hell are you following me?” I asked, my tone sharper this time. “If it’s nothing, turn around and walk away.”
Still no answer.
Just that same silence pressing between us like a wall.
She wasn’t trembling anymore, but I could see it in her body—tense, like a wire pulled too tight. I didn’t know if she was scared, stubborn, or just stupid.
I should’ve kept walking.
I should’ve never turned around.
She didn’t answer.
Just stood there—eyes lowered, hands clutching that damn bag like it was the only thing holding her together.
And then… she swayed.
It was slight at first. I caught the movement in the corner of my eye. Her knees buckled, her body tilted forward.
Shit.
Before I could think, I stepped forward and caught her by the arm. She crumpled like paper in my grip—light, fragile. Unconscious.
I stared down at her, frozen for a second.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
I glanced around the alley. Empty. The bastards who’d tried to hurt her were long gone or too broken to care. And now she was here—passed out cold in my hands like some lost bird that didn’t know when to fly away.
I could just leave her.
No one would know.
But I didn’t move.
Instead, I sighed under my breath, muttered a curse, and adjusted my grip so I could lift her properly.
“What a fucking mess,” I muttered, as I turned and started walking—this time with her in my arms.
The ride was quiet.
She didn’t wake once—head resting lightly against the seat, brow faintly furrowed, as if even in unconsciousness, she couldn’t relax.
I drove straight to my private estate, the one only a handful of people even knew existed. Not the main house. My mother couldn’t know I’d brought a girl anywhere near our name. Especially not one I picked up unconscious in an alley.
The gates opened silently at my signal. I parked the car and carried her inside.
The hallway lights flickered on automatically—soft, warm. She looked even smaller under them. Too pale. Too still.
I brought her into one of the guest rooms—rarely used, but spotless. I laid her down on the bed, adjusted the pillow beneath her head, and stepped back.
She didn’t stir.
For a moment, I just stood there. Watching. Frowning.
Then I turned, left the room, and shut the door behind me without a sound.
The bar was quiet. Just the low hum of silence and the faint sound of ice cracking as I poured myself a drink.
One sip.
Then I pulled out my phone and dialed.
The line clicked, and a voice answered instantly.
“Yes, boss?”
I leaned against the counter, glass in hand, eyes narrowed.
“I want a report on the alley,” I said coldly. “Cameras. Witnesses. I want names of every bastard who was there tonight—and who sent them.”
A pause.
“On it.”
I ended the call and set the phone down.
My fingers curled around the glass again, but I didn’t drink. Not yet.
I was starting to feel it—that tension in my chest. That gnawing pull in the back of my mind.
Who the hell is she?
I stared at the phone for a second longer, then picked it back up and dialed again—this time a different number.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Boss?”
“I need a background check. Full,” I said flatly. “On the girl currently asleep in my guest room.”
A beat of silence.
“Name?”
“Don’t know yet.”
I ended the call without another word, then walked back toward the guest room. Quietly. I opened the door just enough to see her—still lying there, unmoving. Breathing soft. Peaceful, almost. Like the alley hadn’t happened.
I took out my phone again, snapped a quick photo—just her face from a side angle—and sent it with a single text.
Find everything.
No name. No story. No trust.
Not until I knew who she was… and what the hell she was doing crossing into my world.
And why the fuck does she feel like trouble?
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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