[Author's pov]
The first light of morning slipped through the tall, arched windows, painting golden streaks across the marble floor. Dust danced lazily in the sunbeams, the silence of dawn broken only by the faint rustling of curtains stirred by a soft breeze.
The sunlight spilled across the large bed, slowly inching its way up to rest on her face. Rosalie lay still, her breathing steady, her features bathed in gold. The light kissed her skin, tracing the curve of her cheek, her lashes, the slight parting of her lips. In that quiet moment, she looked ethereal—fragile, peaceful, and heartbreakingly beautiful, like something out of a dream.
But this wasn’t a dream.
She was in a stranger’s room, inside a mansion far removed from the world she knew. The high ceiling loomed above her, trimmed with ornate moldings. The walls, dark with expensive wood paneling, bore paintings too grand for someone like her to understand. A chandelier hung above, its crystal arms catching the early light, casting quiet prisms across the space.
The sheets were smooth, impossibly soft, and scented faintly of musk and something expensive she couldn’t name. Nothing in this room was familiar. Nothing felt safe.
And yet, here she was.
[Rosalie's pov]
I woke to warmth on my face—soft, comforting. For a moment, I didn’t open my eyes. I let myself drift in that in-between space where nothing hurts, and everything is quiet.
But the silence felt wrong. Too still. Too heavy.
My eyes fluttered open, and I froze.
This… wasn’t my room.
My breath caught in my throat. I sat up sharply, the smooth sheet slipping off my shoulder. Panic flared in my chest. High ceilings, dark wood, a chandelier above me. The bed beneath me was enormous, the mattress softer than anything I’d ever touched. The sunlight poured in through tall windows I didn’t recognize, and the air smelled unfamiliar—rich, clean, too foreign.
Where am I?
My heart pounded as I looked around. This was not the worn-down apartment I’d grown up in. Not the cold streets I had walked just yesterday. Everything was too luxurious, too pristine—like stepping into someone else’s life.
And then it hit me.
The alley. The man. The way he looked at me. The fear. The pain.
And then—arms. Strong arms. A scent I didn’t recognize. His face.
I had fainted… in that stranger’s arms.
Oh God.
What happened after that? Why am I here? Did he bring me?
I clutched the blanket tighter around me, as if it could protect me from the rising dread curling in my stomach.
I glanced toward the door—closed. Solid. Heavy. Locked?
Then to the windows. They were tall, their panes clear, sunlight spilling in like it belonged here more than I did. One of them was slightly ajar, the breeze whispering through as if beckoning me.
Should I… run?
I shifted closer to the edge of the bed, my bare feet brushing the cold floor. My legs trembled—not just from the chill, but from the ache in my muscles, the memories clawing back in pieces.
I could leave. Climb out that window. I don’t care where I end up. As long as I’m not here. As long as I’m not his.
But what if he’s watching?
What if he gets angry?
I swallowed hard. I didn’t even know who he was—only that he was dangerous, powerful… and yet, he hadn’t hurt me. He’d saved me.
Didn’t he?
Why would he do that? Why bring me here? What does he want?
My eyes darted around the room for anything—my shoes, my bag, anything that might ground me—but there was nothing. Just me, wrapped in foreign sheets, breathing air that wasn’t mine, in a life I didn’t choose.
I rose to my feet, knees wobbling. One step toward the window.
And then I stopped.
What if running made things worse? What if escaping meant stepping right back into the hell I was pulled from?
God, I didn’t know what was more terrifying—staying… or leaving.
I turned away from the window.
No. I needed to know what was behind that door. Who he was. What he wanted. I couldn’t keep guessing, couldn’t keep drowning in my own thoughts.
Step by step, I moved across the cold floor. My fingers curled around the doorknob. Cold metal. Smooth. I hesitated, heart thudding wildly in my chest.
Just open it, Rosalie.
I took a breath and started to turn it—
Click.
The knob moved under my hand—on its own.
My blood ran cold.
I stumbled back, a gasp tearing from my throat. No. No no no—he was coming in. Whoever he was, he was on the other side of that door. The man. The stranger. The one with the cold eyes and expensive suit. The one whose arms I collapsed into.
Without thinking, I spun around and darted back to the bed. My only shelter.
I dove under the covers, dragging the heavy blanket over my head like a child hiding from a monster. My body shook, breath ragged.
“Go away!” I screamed, voice muffled under the sheets. “Don’t come in! Please—just don’t—!”
But the door creaked open anyway.
[Sebastien's pov]
The bag lay on my desk like a quiet confession.
Small. Worn. Nothing special. The kind of bag you’d pass a hundred times on the street without a second glance.
But it was hers.
And that made it dangerous.
I unzipped it slowly, methodically. No rush—only precision.
Inside, a change of clothes, a hairbrush missing a few bristles, some scattered coins, and a few necessities. Neat. Almost too neat, for someone who had looked so lost.
Then I found it.
A slim wallet tucked into the side pocket.
I flipped it open, eyes scanning the ID card.
Rosalie Fontaine.
Age: Twenty-two.
Address: Paris, but not the kind of Paris that breathes wealth and silk. A working-class neighborhood. Tight, narrow streets. The kind of place people vanish and no one bothers to ask why.
I pulled out her passport next. Same name. No stamps. No travel history.
Interesting.
She was local. Born here. Raised here. And yet somehow, she ended up trailing behind me.
Why?
I stared at the photo on the ID. Same face as the one upstairs—only in the picture, she looked... different. Not broken. Not scared. Just a girl trying to survive.
But that wasn’t the girl I carried into my house last night.
That girl looked like she was running from hell.
I leaned back in my chair, still holding her ID between my fingers. Her name echoed in my mind now like a melody I hadn’t heard before.
Rosalie Fontaine.
Now at least I had a name.
But I still didn’t have the truth.
And I was going to get it.
I set the ID down on the desk with a soft thud.
Rosalie Fontaine.
A name didn’t change much—not in my world. But it gave me a thread to pull, and I planned to unravel every secret she was wrapped in.
I stood, the legs of my chair scraping lightly against the floor. I straightened my cuffs, slow and deliberate, then stepped out of the office. My footsteps echoed quietly through the corridor, the silence of the mansion broken only by the distant creak of floorboards and the low groan of old walls breathing around us.
The door to the guest room came into view.
I paused for a second, listening.
Nothing.
Then, as my hand wrapped around the doorknob—
“Go away! Don’t come in! Please—just don’t—!”
Her voice was muffled, panicked. I could hear the tremble in it, the desperation, the edge of a scream already broken loose.
She was hiding. Under the covers, most likely. Like a frightened child.
I opened the door anyway.
The hinges groaned softly, the light from the hallway spilling into the room in a warm slash before the door clicked shut behind me. The air inside was thick with tension and the faint scent of lavender from freshly laundered sheets.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t go to her.
Instead, I crossed the room in silence and sat down in the armchair tucked into the far corner, near the window. I rested one ankle over my knee, leaned back slightly, and watched the trembling shape beneath the blankets.
So fragile.
So afraid.
But I needed answers.
And fear didn’t stop me.
I let the silence stretch a little longer.
She needed to feel the weight of it—the uncertainty. It would make her words more honest when they finally came.
Then I spoke, voice low but clear. Calm.
“I’m not going to kill you. Just answer some of my questions… then we’ll decide what to do with you.”
The trembling beneath the blanket stilled for a second.
A pause.
Then movement—slow, cautious.
She peeled the covers down just enough to reveal her face, eyes wide and wary. Her hands clutched the blanket tightly to her chest, knuckles pale, as if it were the only shield she had left.
She didn’t look at me.
Didn’t dare.
[Rosalie’s pov]
His voice slid through the air like ice against my skin.
I’m not going to kill you.
Somehow, that didn’t comfort me. Not really.
I stayed frozen under the blanket, heart hammering, breath caught in my throat. But slowly—because hiding wouldn’t change anything—I pushed the covers down from my face.
The air was colder outside the cocoon I’d buried myself in. My arms wrapped around the blanket, pulling it tightly to my chest as I sat up. My hair was a mess, and my legs trembled beneath the fabric.
I didn’t look at him.
I couldn’t.
I could feel him there, though. Somewhere across the room. Watching me. Waiting. Like a storm just on the edge of breaking.
He said he wouldn’t hurt me.
But people said a lot of things before they did exactly that.
My throat felt dry. My lips, cracked. I could barely hear my own heartbeat over the silence stretching between us.
He didn’t move. He just sat there… calm. Still. Like he had all the time in the world.
I gripped the blanket tighter.
Every second that passed made it harder to breathe.
I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know what he wanted. But something told me the longer I stayed quiet, the more dangerous this would become.
So I forced the words out, even though they came in a whisper, trembling and hollow.
“What… what do you want to know?”
My voice cracked on the last word.
I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. I felt like if I did, I’d be swallowed whole by whatever darkness he carried with him.
But I could feel him watching me—studying me—like a predator deciding if the wounded thing before him was worth sparing.
His stare didn’t soften.
It just stayed fixed on me—sharp, cold, like I was something dangerous he hadn’t decided what to do with yet.
“Your name.”
I swallowed hard, already told him once. But something told me he wanted to hear it again—from me—on his terms.
“R-Rosalie. Rosalie Fontaine.”
“Why were you following me?”
I gripped the blanket tighter, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I had… nowhere else to go,” I said, carefully, not offering more than I had to. “I wasn’t stalking you or anything. I just thought… maybe I could ask you for help.”
His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker.
“Help,” he repeated flatly. Then, after a pause, his tone sharpened. “Are you a spy?”
My heart jumped to my throat.
“What? No—no, I’m not! I swear, I don’t even know anything about gangs or enemies or any of that—I’m not part of anything. I’m just… me.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“So what kind of help,” he asked slowly, “did you expect from a stranger you knew nothing about? What exactly were you hoping I’d do for you?”
I hesitated.
Because it was insane. I knew it. Who follows a man like him hoping for kindness?
But I looked down, voice dropping to a whisper.
“I just… I just needed somewhere to stay. Somewhere safe,” I said, eyes stinging. “You helped me last night. When those guys wouldn’t leave me alone. I thought maybe… just maybe you’d help me again.”
My hands trembled as I tightened the blanket around me.
It was the truth.
Even if it sounded pathetic.
Even if he laughed in my face.
[Sebastien's pov]
She looked pathetic.
A trembling thing wrapped in a blanket, clutching it like it could shield her from me. Her voice had cracked—twice. She didn’t lie well. Not with words. But sometimes, the truth is messier than lies.
I watched her.
Not just the way her lips moved, but how her fingers dug into the fabric, how her eyes darted down every time I leaned forward even slightly. She wasn’t stupid. Just scared.
But scared people are unpredictable.
I leaned back in the chair, just a little. Let the silence stretch again. Let her wonder what I was thinking.
Her words circled in my head.
“I had nowhere to go.”
“I just wanted shelter.”
“You helped me before.”
Desperation. Or manipulation?
Hard to tell. Innocent eyes have fooled deadlier men than me.
I tilted my head slightly, watching her like a hunter eyeing something that twitched too suddenly.
Then I asked—softly, but with purpose:
“And why, exactly, were you out that late at night? Hmm? You said you had nowhere to go. No home?”
That did it.
Her body went rigid. The pulse at her throat jumped. Her fingers tightened around the blanket like it might vanish if she let go.
Panic.
Real and unfiltered.
And just like that, a slow smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.
Caught her.
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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