I wanted to tear something apart.
Preferably Jacob Black.
The moment that girl—my girl—stormed out of this house with fire in her eyes and a bag on her shoulder, something primal in me snapped. The urge to run after her, to drag her back by her wrist if I had to, was nearly unbearable. Not because I wanted to control her. But because the world wasn't kind. Because I knew exactly what it did to girls who walked away without looking back.
And because I remembered what it was like to be young, furious, and trapped by the expectations of everyone around you.
I sat on the edge of the bed she hadn't slept in since she was six. The room looked the same, but the scent was older now. Faint perfume. Leather from her books. A subtle human sweetness that clung to everything she touched.
It made me want to cry.
But I didn't cry. Not in front of anyone. Not even Emmett.
"She'll be okay," he had said, trying to reassure me.
I didn't need reassurance. I needed revenge.
For what Jacob had done—not the imprint. That wasn't his fault. But everything after. The silence. The selfishness. The way he hovered around her like a planet waiting for gravity to take hold, too cowardly to let her see what he was really doing.
And what we let happen. That's what sickened me the most.
We acted like we had time. Like not telling her would somehow spare her pain. But pain was always waiting. It was inevitable. Especially for girls like us—the ones born into gold cages with smiling guards.
I had wanted more for her.
I fought harder for her than I ever fought for myself. I taught her how to walk in heels, how to break hearts with a glance, how to never let anyone tell her she was anything but a goddess. I made her into a queen, and then stood silent while we all stole her crown.
What kind of mother-figure was I?
The kind who smiled while her niece's future was stolen piece by piece in the name of love.
Bullshit.
Love was a lie when it came with strings.
Love was a lie when it didn't come with truth.
I stood and looked at the mirror across from me. My reflection stared back—flawless, cold, composed. The face of someone who'd survived, but never forgotten. My beauty had been a prison once. I swore I'd never let it become hers.
But it had.
Renesmee was gone, and every inch of me wanted to hunt her down, wrap her in a coat, and scream into the wind that she was loved. That we were wrong. That she didn't have to forgive us—but she damn well better survive.
Because if anyone hurt her—if the world even looked at her the wrong way—I would become the monster they all still whispered about.
And I would burn it all down.