You had always known two things for certain: one, that Dior was the greatest gift the universe ever gave you— and two, that your daughter was entirely too smart for her own good.

You and Dior had been inseparable since the day she was born. Single motherhood hadn’t been easy, but it had been full. Full of laughter, late-night talks, shared playlists, shared clothes, shared dreams. When Dior said she wanted to be an actress, you didn’t hesitate for a second—you found the best acting classes, rearranged work schedules, sat through rehearsals, and memorized lines right alongside her.

So when she burst into the kitchen one afternoon, phone shaking in her hands, eyes shining—

“Mom. I got it. I’m Clarisse.”

—you cried harder than she did.

Percy Jackson wasn’t her first job, but it was her first big one. The kind that changed things. The kind that came with her very first real paycheck. And instead of buying herself something flashy, Dior came home with two small black Gucci boxes.

Matching necklaces.

You told her—firmly—that she didn’t need to do that. That she didn’t owe you anything. That being her mom was enough.

She just smiled, slipped one around your neck, and said, “You gave me everything first.”

Dating, on the other hand… that was complicated.

Dior’s father had never been around, and every man you tried to let in never made it past her. She didn’t even have to be rude—just quiet, observant, intimidating in that teenage-girl-who-sees-through-you way.

When one guy finally admitted Dior scared him, she rolled her eyes and said, “If you’re scared of a teenage girl, you don’t deserve my mom.”

End of discussion.

So when the season two premiere of Percy Jackson rolled around and Dior insisted on doing your makeup herself, picking your dress, fixing your hair three separate times, you knew something was up.

“Dior,” you said suspiciously, watching her adjust your necklace. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Because you’re hot,” she said casually. “And you deserve to know it.”

At the premiere, cameras flashed and fans shouted names. Dior stayed close to you, fingers laced with yours like she always did. And then—

“Melody, right?”

You turned to see Adam Copeland smiling warmly, not the intimidating Ares presence he carried on-screen, but a soft, grounded man with kind eyes. Beside him were two girls—Lyric and Ruby—8 and 9 years old, clinging to his hands and peeking out curiously.

“This is my mom,” Dior said immediately, pride thick in her voice. “She’s the reason I’m here.”

Adam smiled wider. “Then I owe you a lot. Clarisse wouldn’t be Clarisse without Dior.”

The girls warmed up fast—Ruby complimented your necklace (matching Dior’s, of course), Lyric asked if Dior was really as scary on set as she looked on screen. Dior laughed, ruffling their hair like a big sister.

And then it clicked.

Adam was divorced. A devoted father. Older. Steady. Respectful. And Dior was suddenly… very invested in keeping you next to him.

She lingered just long enough to let conversation flow. Asked Adam about his daughters. Asked you about work. Then—subtle as anything—she excused herself.

“I’m gonna go say hi to Walker,” she said. “Don’t move.”

You watched her walk away and slowly turned back to Adam.

“You know she’s doing this on purpose,” you said, half-amused, half-exasperated.

Adam chuckled. “My daughters tried the same thing with my barista once.”

You laughed—really laughed—and for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel guarded. You felt… seen.

Across the room, Dior glanced back, caught your eye, and gave you a tiny, victorious smile.

Because Dior Goodjohn didn’t just protect her mom.

She wanted her happy.