Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She was born in August. Diana Moretti.

The name was elegant, polished—clearly market-tested for maximum press appeal. It belonged on a perfume bottle or a penthouse door, not a baby. But when I saw her—soft and pink, blinking at the world like she hadn’t decided if it was worth trusting yet—I didn’t care what the headlines said. To me, she was Anna.

Tiny. Perfect. Blonde hair like spun gold. Big blue eyes that blinked too slowly, like her soul hadn’t fully caught up to her body yet. Everyone in the hospital cooed. Flashbulbs popped. My father wore his best smile—the one reserved for campaign trail photo-ops and discreet threats. My stepmother wept on cue. The media devoured it.

“Media Mogul Lorenzo Moretti Welcomes Baby Daughter. A Family Man at Last.”

A month later, my stepmother was back in heels and lipstick, draped in designer silk and drinking champagne like the whole thing had been a limited-edition PR event. And Anna? Anna became mine.

The nanny was technically present, but mostly preoccupied with her phone and whatever Kardashian-inspired lifestyle she was chasing. Bottles were left too cold. Diapers were ignored too long. Anna would cry until her face turned blotchy and purple, and no one would even blink.

Except me.

I picked her up. I fed her. I changed her. I sang to her—off-key lullabies I only half-remembered from some other life. She liked when I wrinkled my nose at her. She’d squeal and kick like the joy was too much for her tiny body to contain, and for a second, I could almost forget where we were. Who we belonged to. What kind of house this really was.

She didn’t know yet. Didn’t know the masks. The threats behind closed doors. The way smiles cut sharper than knives. And I planned to keep it that way.

They didn’t hurt her. Not like they did me. Not yet. She was still new. Precious. Untouched. A miracle headline in a custom crib. Her nursery was featured in some glossy magazine like it was the room of a fairy tale princess, all cream tones and curated lies. But once the interviews ended, so did the interest. Diana wasn’t a daughter to them. She was a hashtag. A photo op. Another carefully arranged puzzle piece in the Moretti brand.

But to me?

She was real.

Warm and soft and small in ways that made something ancient flicker in my chest. I’d lie next to her crib at night, listening to her breathe, watching her sleep like it was something sacred. She’d smile sometimes in her dreams, and I’d feel it like a punch to the heart.

If anyone ever laid a finger on her—I would burn this house to the ground.

Apollo hasn’t come back since he gave me the diary. I try not to take it personally. He’s a god. He has other lives to light, other storms to ignore. But part of me wishes he’d return. Not just for me—but for her. I want him to see her. To see how soft she is. How bright. How she makes the world feel less like a punishment.

Anna is mine now. Not legally. Not biologically. But in all the ways that matter. She didn’t ask to be born into this dynasty of polished smiles and weaponized affection. But she’s here. And I will protect her. Even if it means hiding every sharp, dangerous part of myself just to keep her world soft.

She is hope in a onesie. And for the first time in a long time, I have something worth surviving for.