Note: I don't own anything, it all belongs to Stephenie Meyers
Renesmee's pov:
I didn't go home after school. I didn't answer texts. I didn't even check the hundred missed calls I knew were lighting up my phone.
I ran.
Not in the human sense. In the blur-of-trees, heart-pounding, muscles-burning way that I'd only ever let myself enjoy during hunts with my family. This time, though, there was no joy. Just rage. And pain. And betrayal.
How dare they?
How dare they let me believe I had a choice? That my life was mine?
I crashed into a clearing miles from the house, dropped to my knees, and screamed. The sound echoed off the trees, shattered the silence, but didn't relieve anything.
Jacob. My Jacob. My best friend. My protector. My… what?
Imprint. The word felt dirty now.
They knew. They all knew. And no one told me. Not my mother. Not my father. Not even Alice, who could always see the threads before they tangled. How could they let me fall for someone else knowing what was hanging over me?
Knowing I was destined.
The word made me want to tear something apart.
They had robbed me of choice, and worse—they hadn't even told me.
By the time I returned home, the house was silent. But I could hear them. Every breath. Every shift in the air.
They were waiting.
Good.
I slammed open the front door so hard the hinges groaned. Everyone turned to look at me from the living room. The family portrait of perfection.
"I'm guessing you know why I'm upset," I said, voice sharp.
No one spoke.
"Tell me," I demanded. "How long were you going to wait? Until the wedding? Until the vows?"
Edward winced. Bella flinched. Alice looked… sad. That hurt the most.
"We didn't want to influence you," Bella started, stepping forward.
I laughed—hysterical and cold. "You didn't want to influence me? By hiding the most important fact of my entire life?"
"It's not a fact," Edward said quietly. "It's fate."
"Don't," I snapped, turning on him. "Don't give me that crap about destiny and soulmates. I'm not a fairytale, Dad. I'm a person."
"We thought it was best—" Carlisle began, ever the diplomat.
"For who?" I spat. "For me? Or for him?"
Jacob entered through the back, face tight, eyes pleading.
"You should've told me," I said, the betrayal cutting through my voice like ice. "You all should've told me."
No one answered.
"Then maybe I wouldn't feel like a puppet in my own life."
I stormed past them, up the stairs, slamming the door hard enough that the walls shook. And then I did something I'd never done before.
I packed a bag.