Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or any of its characters—those belong to Stephenie Meyer. This is purely a fan-made work created out of love for the series and a desire to explore Edward and Renesmee's story in greater depth. All rights to the original content remain with the author.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading :)

In Chapter 2, expect father-daughter sweetness, piano duets, and, of course, a dose of Cullen drama (because Rosalie can't help herself).

Enjoy!

Harmony and Discord

I first sensed Renesmee's excitement through the soft swirl of her thoughts before I heard her tiny feet on the wooden floor. Even with my heightened hearing, nothing could alert me faster than the vivid flickers of images her mind sent forth. She pictured swirling piano keys, dotted with musical notes as if each one were a balloon floating upward. It made me smile, though I kept my head bowed over the piano for a moment, letting my fingertips linger on the final chord of the lullaby I'd just finished.

Renesmee came toddling into the music room with her usual mix of grace and clumsy enthusiasm. At three years old, she was already more coordinated than most human children her age, but she still had that endearing wobble whenever she hurried too fast. The overhead lights cast a soft glow on her bronze curls, highlighting how much she resembled me. Sometimes, I still couldn't fathom it: I had created this tiny being. After so many decades of solitude and reluctance to even consider fatherhood, she had become the center of my world in a way I could never have anticipated.

Nessie stopped near the piano bench, peering up at me with a bright, expectant grin. "Daddy," she said, her voice high and eager. "Play that one again."

I lifted my hands from the keys, turning slightly so I could fully drink in the sight of her. Her eyes sparkled as she waited. Even now, the ghost of the paint fiasco from earlier in the day tugged at my memory. We'd cleaned her up—cleaned the walls, too—and she'd eventually forgiven me for interrupting her 'masterpiece.' Or so it seemed. I heard only contentment in her mind at the moment: swirling colors and the memory of the melody I'd been playing.

"How about something new?" I suggested gently. "We can compose a little song together, just you and me."

Her face lit up. "Yes! Please?" She hopped from one foot to the other, then clambered onto the piano bench beside me, dwarfed by its size. I didn't miss the brush of her elbow against my side, or the soft giggle that escaped her lips as she settled in.

I arranged my left hand on the lower keys, reaching my right arm around her so she'd have enough room. "All right," I said, pressing a simple chord to start. "We'll make it up as we go. Give me an idea, sweetheart."

Nessie leaned over the keys, her eyes skimming the black and white in fascination. I caught a glimpse of her thoughts: daisies in a meadow, the hush of wind in the trees, faint glimpses of birds fluttering overhead. She wanted something lively yet gentle, so I began to weave a soft pattern of notes, almost like the chirping of springtime birds. She beamed, and I could sense her mind leaping in excitement.

"Now, you try," I encouraged, taking my left hand away to give her space.

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keys. "But your fingers are longer," she complained, tilting her head back to look up at me.

I offered a sympathetic smile. "Someday yours will grow, too. Until then, just do your best."

She pouted for a half-second, then pressed a few keys. They came out a little discordant, but I caught the glimmer in her mind—a desire to emulate my patterns. I quietly corrected the chord, and together we created a simple lullaby of sorts, each measure guided by my deeper chords and her tentative high notes.

For several minutes, the house felt warmed by the sound of our duet. Even though I knew everyone else could hear us—my entire family, with their sharp vampire hearing—I didn't mind. There was something pure and wonderful about these moments with my daughter, when her bright mind and my long centuries of practice fused into a spontaneous creation. I glanced at her frequently, noticing how much her bronze hair glowed under the lamp, and how her little cheeks flushed with pleasure whenever she played a nice-sounding chord.

Eventually, I took up a more recognizable melody, a gentle lullaby Bella once claimed reminded her of meadow breezes at twilight. Nessie's brow furrowed as she tried to follow along, her right hand clumsily echoing some of my notes. She stumbled but laughed, then tried again. Her determination thrilled me, and I made sure to smile in encouragement.

"You play so pretty," she said at one point, her voice hushed as if afraid to break the spell.

I felt a surge of affection. "Thank you. It comes with a lot of practice."

Her gaze darted to my left hand, where my wedding ring caught the overhead light. She stared at the gold band for a moment, a curious tilt to her head. Then her mind flickered with an imaginative swirl: the ring itself glowing, radiating some strange sort of magic. It was a thought so distinctly childlike and enchanting that I had to stifle a smile.

"Daddy," she breathed, "I think it's your ring that makes you play so good."

I paused. "My ring?"

She nodded decisively, poking at it with a tiny finger. "Yes. It's a secret power. You were just regular until you put it on, right?" Her big eyes locked with mine, expecting confirmation.

I flicked my gaze to her thoughts, glimpsing the whimsical logic forming: she loved the idea that my wedding ring, symbolizing my bond with Bella, gave me special abilities. If only she knew what truly gave me 'abilities'—the venom in my veins, the century of practice in solitude, the intangible complexities of my entire existence. But that was far too weighty for her innocent worldview, so I merely chuckled and stroked her hair.

"Maybe it's my secret power," I agreed with a playful tone. "It reminds me of your mommy. And that helps me play with more heart."

She giggled, entirely satisfied with that explanation. In her mind, I saw a flash of Bella's face: warm eyes, a loving smile. Nessie associated both of us with safety and affection, and it filled me with a calm, protective surge. For a moment, the earlier chaos of the day disappeared, replaced by the sweetness of sitting at the piano with my daughter at dusk.

Her little fingers slid off the keys as she hopped down. "I wanna do that again tomorrow," she announced firmly, tugging at the hem of my shirt.

"Of course," I said. "We can practice every day if you'd like."

Before she could answer, I heard footsteps—deliberate, Rosalie's. She swept into the room, her golden hair shining, her expression poised somewhere between benevolence and determination. I knew that look. Whenever Rosalie wore that exact half-smile and set her chin, it usually meant she had a plan she intended to see through, no matter what obstacles might arise.

Nessie turned to greet Rosalie with a bright smile. My daughter loved her aunt in that simple, warm way children often love the grown-ups around them—particularly the ones who coddle them. Rosalie had indeed been protective of Nessie from the start, seeing in her the child Rosalie herself could never have. Yet I also sensed something else in Rosalie's mind. She wanted Renesmee tonight, specifically for her own reasons. I heard fleeting images of what looked like an overnight trip— maybe to some mall—her ideas flickered in and out. She was thinking about how much fun it would be to parade around with this beautiful child on her arm. She told herself she wanted to give me and Bella a break, but I knew better. Rosalie craved the validation of 'motherhood' vicariously through Nessie.

"Edward," she greeted, letting her gaze flick to me, then settling on Renesmee. "I've come to take my niece out for the night. She's staying with me."

Nessie's eyes brightened. She liked adventurous outings, and Rosalie often let her get away with more than I would. However, I stiffened at Rosalie's tone. She made it sound like a statement of fact, not a request. As if, by default, my daughter belonged to her for the evening.

"That's… not going to be possible," I said carefully, ignoring the spike of irritation that flared inside me. "Nessie's bedtime is coming up soon. It's already eight, and she needs her rest." I leveled Rosalie with a calm look, though I could see her annoyance blossoming in her mind. "Perhaps tomorrow or the weekend. I need to talk to Bella about it first anyway."

Rosalie folded her arms, giving a scoff. "Don't be ridiculous. She's more than capable of staying up a bit later. She's a half-vampire—she's not exactly as fragile as a human child."

I tried to keep my temper in check, focusing on the steadiness I'd gained over my century of life. "She still needs her sleep. Nessie has been active all day, and we have our own routines. I'd rather not disrupt them without good reason."

By now, Renesmee stood between us, glancing back and forth uncertainly. I felt a flicker of anxiety in her mind. She hated seeing tension. Typically, she might try to insert a small joke or a display of her gift—placing her hand on Rosalie to show a fun memory—to lighten the mood, but tonight she sensed something heavier in the air.

Rosalie tossed her hair over her shoulder, shooting me a condescending smile. "Well, I suppose we should be grateful you allowed her to exist at all."

My entire body went rigid. I sensed the direction her thoughts were heading, and a wave of dread coursed through me. This was the confrontation I'd always sought to avoid—at least around Renesmee. Rosalie let the words fall with a certain casual venom, and I knew she intended to slip a knife between my ribs.

"Rosalie," I warned quietly, "not here."

She tilted her chin, a glow of self-righteous fury flickering in her amber eyes. "Why not? What's the harm now? The child's here. She deserves to know how things really went. How you wanted her gone."

Heat rushed into my limbs. "She's three years old," I hissed. "She doesn't need to hear about that."

But Rosalie ignored me and turned her gaze to Renesmee. "Your father didn't want you to be born, did you know that? He wanted Bella to—"

"Rosalie!" I all but roared, reflexively stepping in front of Nessie, as though I could shield her from these cruel truths. My tone likely came out sharper than I intended, and I felt a twinge of guilt as I saw my daughter's face cloud with confusion and alarm.

It was too late. Rosalie pressed on, her voice dangerously calm. "If it weren't for me—and your mother—fighting for you, Renesmee, he would've thrown away the miracle that you are."

I heard Nessie's heartbeat pick up, a faint acceleration that vibrated through the silence of the room. She clutched the hem of my shirt, her eyes flicking to me with an almost imperceptible tremble. Her mind churned with half-formed questions. She didn't understand fully, but she grasped enough: I, her father, had once wanted something terrible to happen to her.

"Stop," I said through clenched teeth, my voice low and shaking with a wrath I so rarely let slip. In that moment, if I could have forcibly silenced Rosalie, I might have done so. But we were well past that point; she'd unleashed the secret.

Rosalie lifted a hand, waving me off. "Don't you tell me to stop. The only reason you're even a father is because I made Bella see reason. You were set to kill that fetus the moment you realized it was there. You—"

I caught the flash of horror and heartbreak in Nessie's eyes, and that was all it took. "Rosalie," I growled, every fiber of my being wanting to end this conversation. "Out. Now."

Her lips parted, perhaps to retort, but she caught sight of Nessie's expression and closed her mouth. She let out a derisive huff and turned on her heel, hair whipping around her shoulders, striding away without another word.

Silence fell in the music room. I stood there, hands clenched at my sides, chest tight with fury and regret. My mind teemed with the memory of those agonizing days of Bella's pregnancy: my desperation, my terror at losing Bella, the sheer panic that overshadowed any rational thought. I had, indeed, harbored the idea that destroying the fetus could save Bella's life. It was a knowledge that haunted me still, even after I'd come to love Renesmee more than my own existence. Yet to have that truth revealed so callously in front of my daughter… it was a cruelty I had hoped never to see.

Nessie tugged again at my shirt, her hand trembling. I lowered my gaze to her, seeing tears welling in those eyes that mirrored Bella's shape and my color. Her lower lip quivered.

"Daddy?" she whispered, her voice tiny.

Guilt crashed over me. In an instant, I scooped her into my arms, pressing her close to my chest. "It's all right," I breathed. "I love you, Nessie. You know that, don't you?"

She pressed her face into my shoulder, refusing to look at me. Her thoughts were turbulent—confusion, fear, heartbreak. She didn't fully understand the concept of wanting a pregnancy ended, but she gathered enough to sense that I hadn't wanted her to be born at one point. That alone was shattering her sense of security. She'd always believed her father adored her unconditionally. And I did—but how was she supposed to reconcile that with what she'd just heard?

I strode quickly from the music room and headed upstairs, away from prying ears. The rest of the family must have heard the altercation. I glimpsed Emmett lingering by the staircase, frowning deeply, but I shot him a glare that kept him from speaking. Jasper stood at the far end of the hallway, obviously sensing my fury, but he gave me a small nod and moved aside, allowing me to pass.

At last, I reached Nessie's bedroom—our little haven. Though she was often with Bella and me in the cottage, she had this cozy room in the main house for nights when we all stayed here together. I flicked on the soft bedside lamp. The walls—thankfully, unpainted by her earlier escapade—reflected the pale yellow glow. I set her gently on the bed, trying to meet her gaze.

She stared at her hands, refusing eye contact. Her mind was a swirl of images: that harsh moment in the living room, Rosalie's words, the sense of betrayal. She felt small, vulnerable.

"Nessie," I said softly, kneeling so our eyes were level. "I'm sorry. What Rosalie said… She shouldn't have said it. Not like that. But I need you to understand something."

She remained quiet, a tremor running through her little shoulders. Usually, she clung to me, especially at bedtime. Tonight, she looked as though she wasn't sure she wanted me near her. My heart twisted painfully.

"Sweetheart, do you remember the stories your mom told you? About how sick she got before you were born?" I asked gently. Bella had tried to explain some of it in the simplest of terms: that carrying Renesmee had been dangerous for her health. Nessie gave a minute nod, her eyes glistening with tears. "I was scared," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I thought Mommy was going to die if she carried you to term. I was so terrified of losing her that I… I considered things I regret deeply."

She sniffled, and her lips pursed. She still didn't look at me, but her mind latched onto my explanation.

"I didn't know how wonderful you would be," I went on softly. "I didn't know anything about you except that you were hurting Mommy from the inside. I wanted to keep her safe, and I was afraid." I paused, searching her face, hoping some of my remorse and love would reach her. "But none of that changes how much I love you right now. I have loved you from the moment I heard your thoughts and realized you were a part of me, a part of your mom. I wouldn't trade you for anything in this world."

Her chest hitched as though she might cry, but no tears fell. She might have been too confused or too shocked to truly weep. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she lifted her eyes to mine. "But… Auntie Rosalie said… you… wanted me… gone," she managed, her voice breaking.

The agony in her tone nearly killed me. "That was before," I said quickly. "Before I understood you. I was wrong. So very wrong. I'm sorry."

She stared at me, and in her mind, I sensed warring emotions: the unwavering trust she'd always had, fighting against this brutal new knowledge. She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes in a clumsy attempt to gather herself. For a moment, it looked like she might throw herself into my arms as she usually did. Instead, she turned away and pulled up the covers, slipping under them without a word.

I inhaled sharply. The silence that followed was heavy with heartbreak. I inched closer to the bed. "Nessie?"

She didn't respond, just clutched the blanket up to her chin and closed her eyes, a clear signal that she wanted to shut me out. Her mind flickered with the same imagery—her normal, happy world, now overshadowed by what she'd heard. She felt uncertain, shaken. It terrified her that her father, her biggest champion, might have once wished for her to never exist.

"Sweetheart, can I…?" I hovered, unsure whether to try to hug her or to respect the barrier she'd set up. I was so used to being the one to soothe her—her father, her protector—but this was a hurt that might take time to heal. She didn't budge, and her eyelids stayed closed, two glittering tears escaping from beneath her lashes.

I felt my throat tighten. Even though I couldn't produce tears, I knew I would be crying if it were physically possible. As gently as I could, I leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple, letting my lips linger there. "I love you," I whispered. "I always will."

Still, she did not open her eyes. No whispered 'I love you too, Daddy' came, as it always had at bedtime. The silence was crushing. Her mind shut itself off from me, not in a shielded way like Bella's but in the simple refusal of a child not wanting to share. Her earlier eagerness for music, for talk of my 'magic ring,' for our normal bedtime routine—gone in a flash of heartbreak.

I slowly straightened, gazing down at her small form beneath the blankets. In that moment, I hated Rosalie for what she had done. Yes, it was true that she had advocated for Renesmee's birth, but to throw that in my daughter's face—like a twisted weapon—was inexcusable. My fury surged, and I had to clamp my jaw shut to keep from growling aloud. Nessie didn't need more fear, more reminders of conflict. She needed peace.

As quietly as I could, I clicked off the bedside lamp, letting the dimness settle. The only light came from the hallway, a narrow beam that fell across the bed, illuminating the tear tracks on my daughter's cheeks. My child. My sweet, cherished Renesmee, who had only known love from me since her first breath. Now she was burdened with a betrayal she could not fully comprehend.

I stared at her for another moment, torn. I wanted to cradle her in my arms until she believed my sincerity. But I also knew that pushing too hard might make her withdraw further. So I forced myself to leave the room, cracking the door just enough to let the hallway light seep in, a small reassurance in the darkness.

My hands were shaking with pent-up anger. I had no illusions that Rosalie would be remorseful. She had never been one to apologize easily, especially not to me. But this crossed a line. My daughter's happiness and trust had been shattered by a reckless remark, made solely to wound me. The fact that it had harmed Nessie instead made my fury burn with an intensity I hadn't felt in years.

I took one step into the hallway, pausing as I heard soft conversation from downstairs. Carlisle, presumably, trying to calm Esme. Maybe Emmett chiming in, or Alice. No one came to find me—likely they knew better than to approach me in this state, not while I was furious enough to lash out. Jasper's calm presence lingered at the edge of my awareness, but he didn't come near me. He knew that a measured approach was best if I wanted to handle my own temper. And I did—mostly. But I couldn't remain silent.

My eyes shifted down the hall toward Rosalie's room. The door was closed, but a faint line of light beneath it indicated she was inside. Her mind brushed against mine, though not deliberately. She was thinking about how she had 'defended the truth.' She felt a rush of satisfaction for exposing my hypocrisy. She didn't see how it might traumatize a three-year-old; she justified her words by telling herself that 'the truth is better than lies.' A wave of anger swelled in me again. How dare she presume to decide what was best for my daughter? As if she was the child's mother.

Without allowing myself another moment of hesitation, I stalked down the hallway. Each step felt overly loud in my ears, my shoes tapping on the polished floor in steady, menacing beats. She surely heard me coming, but I didn't care. I wanted her to know I was on my way. I wanted her to sense the rage I felt for the pain she'd inflicted.

In my mind, I pictured Nessie's face—her heartbreak, the tears, the silence. My guilt mixed with fury. If I hadn't given Rosalie the chance to speak, if I'd swiftly carried Renesmee out of earshot, maybe she wouldn't have heard that revelation so bluntly. But no matter what regrets swirled inside me, I couldn't change what had happened. The only thing I could do was confront Rosalie, set firm boundaries, and ensure she never, ever wielded that secret like a weapon against my daughter again.

Stopping at her door, I tightened my fists. A hiss of breath left my lips. Inside, I caught her mind's drift: she was annoyed by the household drama, convinced that I was overreacting. She was thinking that Nessie would recover quickly—'She's half-vampire, she'll get over it'—and that she, Rosalie, was still the hero in this scenario. My anger flared anew.

I raised my hand and knocked once, sharply. No response. Typical Rosalie: giving me the silent treatment as though she were the injured party. I turned the knob, forcing the door open. Bright lamplight spilled into the hallway, illuminating her standing by a vanity, running a brush through her golden hair. She met my gaze in the mirror, eyes cool. She didn't look the least bit sorry.

I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me with a little too much force. The sharp click echoed off the walls. My entire body was tense, my eyes burning with the intensity of my anger. Rosalie set down her brush slowly, arching an eyebrow as if to say, "Well, get on with it."

In that moment, I gathered every ounce of restraint I had, and advanced toward her. The air in the room felt charged, like a summer storm on the brink of lightning and thunder. My jaw flexed, and I drew in a steadying breath. The time for confrontation had arrived.

And I intended to make it crystal clear: No one—family or not—would ever again hurt my daughter that way.

Your thoughts mean the world, so don't be shy—leave a review and make my day!