AN: Hello, dear reader! This chapter was a surprise to me, I must say. I was about to write the chapter I promised you and this came out instead. Since this wasn't planned I decided to post it right now. We are not going to be hearing from Barbara Ann for a couple of chapters, so I thought it would be nice to have Steve and Diana spend some time with her. Thank you for the kudos on this story, the prequel and one-shot from my WW universe! Enjoy!

14

third trimester (8 months)

Slowly but surely, the apartment has been transforming into a sanctuary of tiny wonders. It started subtly around the four-month mark — a little outfit here, a pair of impossibly small socks there. I couldn't resist picking up things that made me smile, imagining the day Maia would wear them. Steve, already head-over-heels in love with his daughter, began showing up from work with small bags in hand — a plush teddy bear one day, a rattle shaped like a star the next. Barbara Ann, with her knack for finding treasures in the most unexpected places, brought handwoven wool blankets from tiny villages she visited for work. Each gift felt like a promise, a whisper of the love already surrounding our unborn child.

Now, four months later, the spare bedroom has become a testament to the excitement and anticipation of Maia's arrival. The room is a kaleidoscope of colors and textures — tiny onesies folded neatly in drawers, stuffed animals perched on shelves, and a crib standing proudly in the corner, its soft mobile spinning gently in the breeze from the open window. A rocking chair sits by the window, its cushions already a little worn from the hours I've spent there, imagining the future.

A couple of weeks ago, the news of my resignation was announced to the Louvre's administration. The goodbye party they threw for me was an emotional whirlwind. The grand hall, usually filled with the quiet hum of scholarly discussions, was alive with laughter and heartfelt speeches. Colleagues I'd worked alongside for years came up to me and shared how much they'd miss me. Their words were a mix of sadness and excitement — sadness at my departure, but excitement for the new chapter I was about to begin. Emilie, my steadfast assistant, made me promise to visit once the baby was big enough to toddle through the galleries.

After the festivities, I retreated to my office one last time. The room felt smaller somehow, as if it already knew it was no longer mine. I sat at my desk, running my fingers over the polished wood, memories flooding back. This job had been more than just a position — it had been a challenge, a journey, and a source of immense fulfillment. I'd learned to navigate a different kind of battle here, one fought with diplomacy, patience, and the occasional well-placed glare. And I'd loved every second of it.

With a deep breath, I packed the last of my belongings into a small box — a framed photo of Steve and me, a few books, a trinket from Themyscira that had sat on my desk for years. I climbed the stairs slowly, each step a quiet farewell to the place that had become a second home. At the top, I paused, my hand resting on the doorframe, before stepping out and closing the door behind me for the final time.

I left my keycard on Emilie's desk, the act feeling strangely ceremonial. As I walked through the grand halls of the Louvre for the last time, the weight of what I was leaving behind settled on my shoulders. But beneath that weight was a flicker of anticipation, a quiet excitement for the life waiting for me beyond these walls.

Since the party, the buzzer to our apartment has been ringing nonstop. Colleagues, friends, and even acquaintances have been sending parting gifts. The gifts range from the small and considerate — a memory book embossed with "Baby Trevor" in gold lettering — to the extravagant — a one-month subscription for nutritious meal deliveries, and a luxurious massage at the Ritz Hotel Spa, courtesy of Monsieur Le Directeur (that one, I'll definitely be using when we return.)

I stand at the doorway of what is no longer the "spare bedroom" but Maia's room. My hands rest on the curve of my belly, now impossibly large, and I drum my fingers lightly against it.

"You're so lucky, Maia," I murmur, my voice soft but filled with emotion. "You have so many people who can't wait to meet you. Your father and I? We're counting the days until we can hold you in our arms. But, baby… I'm also terrified."

I step into the room and lower myself into the rocking chair, its familiar creak a comforting sound. Leaning back, I rest my hands on the top of my belly, feeling the gentle movements beneath my palms.

"You're safe right now," I whisper, as much to myself as to her. "Nothing can touch you. You have the protection of my body. But once you're ready to come out, nothing will stop you. And that terrifies me. What if something happens to you? What if I can't keep you safe?"

Last night, the weight of those fears had overwhelmed me. Steve was working late, and I found myself sitting alone in the quiet apartment, tears streaming down my face. Maia isn't going to be a normal child. At any moment, the people I've spent my life fighting could target her. Whether they know she's my daughter or not, her proximity to me makes her vulnerable.

It's a paradox. Keeping her close to me is the best way to protect her, but being close to me might also put her in harm's way.

That night, I seriously considered stepping away from my duties as the protector of men. Who am I if not a mother first? If I leave to save the world and come home to find I've missed her first steps, her first words, a school recital — or worse, that she's been hurt — I couldn't live with myself. Maia deserves a mother who is present. Always.

When Steve finally came home close to midnight, he found me in the bathtub, the water long gone cold, my eyes puffy and red.

"Angel?" he said, his voice laced with concern. He dropped his bag on the floor without a second thought and knelt beside the tub, his hand reaching for mine. "What's wrong? Talk to me."

I told him everything — every fear, every doubt, every worst-case scenario that had kept me awake at night. He listened without judgment, his eyes never leaving mine. When I finished, he rested his hand on my belly, his touch gentle and reassuring. Maia stirred beneath his palm, as if responding to his presence.

"I have the same fears," he admitted, his voice steady but soft. "I don't want to fail her. Ever. And yet, we will. All parents do. We're not perfect. I don't have all the answers, Angel, but I'll tell you this: we're going to teach her that everyone, her included, has the power to make a difference in the world. It just so happens that her parents can help a little more than most people. Maia will never be alone. She'll never feel like she's not the most important person in our lives, because she will be. And I know you can't just sit by while innocent people suffer."

Tears streamed down my cheeks as his words sank in. He was right. I couldn't ignore the amber alerts on my phone or the live streams of crimes on TV. It's not who I am. And what would I be teaching Maia if I turned away from those in need?

We live in a world where selfishness reigns. The idea of caring for others is slowly being replaced by a mindset that prioritizes the self above all else. A little selfishness is healthy, but the levels we've reached? It's leading us down a dangerous path.

I wiped my tears and nodded. "She'll know she's the most important person in our lives. And when the time comes, she'll understand why we can't always be there for every moment."

Steve smiled, his hand still resting on my belly. "That's right. And hey, at some point, she'll join us in the fight."

I groaned, throwing my head back. "That thought terrifies me even more."

Maia kicked excitedly, as if in agreement, and I couldn't help but laugh. "Calm down, baby. You're not fighting anyone yet."

Steve chuckled, leaning down to kiss the spot where she'd kicked. "You're ready for a fight, aren't you?"

I stared at my belly, a strange sense of intuition washing over me. "You know, lately I've been getting this feeling. I don't know if it's just my imagination, but I think this one…" — I tapped my belly lightly — "…is going to be a handful."

Steve raised an eyebrow, a twinkle in his eye. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I said, half-laughing, half-dreading the thought. "One day, we're going to be cooking dinner, and we'll wonder where the knives went. Then we'll turn around to find Maia juggling said knives."

Steve burst out laughing, and eventually, I joined him, the fear momentarily lifting from my chest.

But fear is a persistent companion. Right now, as I sit in Maia's room, about to pack her tiny clothes for our trip to Themyscira, it creeps back in. Tomorrow, we leave for the island. The moment our feet touch the white sands, Maia could decide it's time to make her entrance.

In less than a month, Steve and I will officially be parents.

And that thought is utterly terrifying.

"I want to apologize in advance, Maia," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I know we're going to make mistakes. I know I'm going to make mistakes. I'm sorry. All I want is to keep you safe. I know I can't protect you from everything, but I'm going to try. You'll probably hate it when you're old enough to understand — just like I did. But I promise you this: I will never lie to you. As you grow, I'll tell you what our purpose is, and I'll guide you the best I can. I love you. Now and always."

I sit there for a moment and decide to try my best to not let the fear overwhelm me anymore. We'll do our best. That's all we can do. I just hope it's enough.

I pack our duffle bag. The faint scent of lavender from the detergent we use mingles with the crisp, clean smell of Maia's brand new clothes. There really isn't much to take — just clothes for our arrival and departure. Themyscira already holds a wardrobe waiting for us. My armor and lasso are neatly tucked away, as always, their familiar weight a comforting reminder of my purpose. I double-check Maia's clothes, running my fingers over the tiny seams and soft fabrics, ensuring they're the right size for when we return. She'll be a month old by then, and the thought sends a flutter of anticipation through me, warm and sweet like the first rays of morning sun.

The doorbell rings, its chime cutting through the quiet of the apartment. I cross the room, my bare feet padding softly against the cool wooden floor, and open the door.

"Hello, hello. I brought some stuff. Most of it is for later use, but I thought I'd bring it over anyway, just in case you decide it might be useful while you're away."

Barbara Ann strides in, her arms laden with at least seven bags, the crinkle of paper and rustle of fabric filling the air as she moves. She barely glances my way, her focus on navigating the clutter-free space with her usual efficiency. But today, there's something different in her energy — a quiet intensity that makes me smile, a subtle crack in her usual composed exterior.

"What's all this?" I ask, stepping closer and peering into the bags. The familiar logos of luxury brands catch my eye — Prada, Gucci, Fendi — their sleek designs and rich textures hinting at the treasures within.

She huffs, setting the bags down with a soft thud. "Honestly? Probably not enough. I mean, I went down the rabbit hole. First, I thought, 'Hey, most people think of the baby and forget about the mother.' Easy enough. I went to Galeries Lafayette and hit all your favorites. You've probably been given baby bags already, but you're just as fashionable as any princess in this world, so I bought you a really beautiful one that goes more with your style."

She hands me a Prada bag, her tone casual, but her eyes flicker with something deeper — pride, maybe, or affection. The bag is cool and smooth in my hands, its black nylon surface catching the light as I turn it over.

"Barbara Ann, this is too much," I say, pulling out the bag. It's gorgeous — a sleek design with multiple pockets and even a changing pad. I gasp, running my fingers over the smooth material, the scent of newness wafting up to meet me. "Oh, I love it! But honestly, this is too much."

She shrugs, her lips twitching into a smirk. "Think so? Well, turns out I couldn't decide, so I also bought the baby bags from Gucci and Fendi."

"Barbara Ann!" I try to look disapproving, but it's hard when I'm practically diving into the bags, my excitement bubbling over. I hug the Gucci bag to my chest like a pretentious rich girl, laughing. The bag's buttery softness feels luxurious against my skin. "Oh, you're spoiling me. Thank you."

She laughs, a rare, unrestrained sound that fills the room like music. "I knew you'd love it. Wait, there's more."

"Oh, God. What have you done?!" I exclaim, peeking into the other bags, the rustle of tissue paper and the crinkle of plastic wrapping adding to the sense of anticipation.

Barbara Ann steps in front of them, blocking my view. "Uh-uh. You wait. Sit down, Your Highness, and let me shower you with gifts."

I laugh, sinking into the couch, still clutching the baby bag.

Barbara Ann proceeds to shower me with gifts. Skincare products in sleek packaging, their glass bottles cool and heavy in my hands, the faint floral scent of lotions and serums wafting through the air. The softest silk pajamas I've ever felt, their fabric whispering against my skin as I unfold them. An excellent bottle of wine for when I can drink it, its glass smooth and cool, the label elegant and understated. And a manual breast pump — a practical and thoughtful gift that I'll definitely take to Themyscira. Just as she's about to present the last gift, the door opens, and Steve walks in, his cheeks flushed from the cool air outside.

"Woah! Did we organize a baby shower and I forgot?" he jokes, closing the door behind him. He's just returned from running errands before we leave tomorrow morning.

"Trevy! Just in time. More like a 'momma shower.' But this last gift is actually for the two of you," Barbara Ann says, pulling out a box from a nondescript bag.

Steve moves some of the gifts aside and sits next to me, his warmth a comforting presence. "Really? What is it?"

"It got here just in the nick of time. I almost went to Athens myself to pick it up," she says, her voice tinged with excitement.

I exchange a glance with Steve. Athens?

Barbara Ann waves a hand at the pile of gifts. "All those will either run out at some point or simply not be of use anymore as Maia grows up. So I spent a whole afternoon brainstorming ideas with Pierre."

At the mention of him, Steve and I exchange a knowing look, teasingly going "Wee-oooo", like children.

Barbara Ann blushes but ignores us, her focus unwavering. "As I was saying, I wanted something that would actually be of continuous use. Then I remembered my mum. I've told you about her, and how she spent a lot of time during her childhood in Greece. The first ever story from mythology she told me was about Athena, and how she planted an olive tree to symbolize peace and prosperity, winning the patronage of Athens over Poseidon. And since Athena is also supposed to be the protector of heroes, I thought olive wood would be the perfect material."

She opens the box to reveal a stunning photo frame, its surface polished to a warm, golden sheen that catches the light. The wood looks smooth and perfect, its grain swirling like the waves of the Aegean Sea. She removes the lid and hands us the box.

"I found a tiny shop on the outskirts of Athens that handcrafts anything you like with olive wood. I designed it, and as you can see, at the bottom is my mum's favorite Greek proverb: Η οικογένεια είναι η ασπίδα μας."

My vision blurs as I read the words aloud: "Family is our shield."

I run my fingers over the frame, the faint, earthy scent of olive wood filling the air. Barbara Ann doesn't talk about her mother often — not because she doesn't want to, but because it's too painful. Her mother, Lady Isobel Cavendish, died from breast cancer when Barbara Ann was only seven years old. Lady Isobel was her world — the one who nurtured her love for history, encouraged her to learn languages, and never told her she couldn't achieve something. Her father, Lord Cavendish, was never affectionate, but Barbara Ann remembers the tenderness in his eyes whenever he looked at her mother.

When Lady Isobel died, her father retreated into himself, sending Barbara Ann to boarding school. Whenever she came home, he would fill her days with tutors and lessons — piano, violin, horseback riding, tennis. He was always too busy to spend time with her, his study door perpetually closed. The only time he spoke to her — or at her, as she put it — was when she brought home less-than-stellar grades, something she did on purpose just to hear his voice. That attitude towards her never changed. Nothing she ever did was ever good enough. Barbara Ann hardly ever hears from him unless he has something to say about how she handled herself in this situation or that project.

"He was so obsessed with lifting the Cavendish name that I just decided to change it one day. My mum's maiden name didn't demand anything of me other than to be happy."

She exhaled and toyed with her fingers. "I think his heart died with Mum. Mine did too," she once said under her breath, her voice heavy with unspoken grief.

But as I hold the photo frame, I see no evidence of a dead heart. Barbara Ann has one of the biggest hearts I've ever known. To include her mother's favorite proverb, to give us this piece of Lady Isobel — it's a gift beyond measure.

"Barbara Ann, this is… thank you," I say, my voice trembling. I stand and pull her into a tight hug. "I love you."

She hesitates for a moment, then hugs me back, her arms strong and steady, the faint scent of her perfume — something that's just her — filling the air. "I love you too," she murmurs, her voice soft but sincere.

Steve grabs the box, his fingers tracing the carved words with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring the feel of the olive wood beneath his touch. He nods, a quiet understanding passing over his features, and carefully pulls the photo frame from its nest of tissue paper.

He walks to the console table by the door, his footsteps muffled by the plush rug beneath his feet. The table, a sleek, narrow piece of furniture, is adorned with a couple of ceramic bowls — one a deep, earthy green, the other a muted blue — where we toss our keys at the end of the day. The faint jingle of metal against ceramic fills the air as he moves them aside, making space for the frame. He sets it at the center, positioning it so it faces the rest of the living room, a silent but powerful statement.

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Barbara Ann's. She's still hugging me, her arms strong and steady, but I know there's a vulnerability in her gaze that she rarely lets show.

"You know you're part of this family, right?" Steve asks, his voice soft but firm, carrying the weight of a truth that doesn't need to be spoken but deserves to be heard.

I pull back slightly, still holding Barbara Ann's hand, and give it a gentle squeeze. Her fingers are cool against mine, but there's a warmth in her grip that speaks volumes. She smiles shyly, her eyes dropping to the floor for a moment, as if the weight of his words is too much to hold. But when she looks up again, there's a mischievous glint in her eyes, a spark of the Barbara Ann we know and love.

"Does that mean I get to be immortal at some point?" she quips, her tone light but her words laced with the kind of humor that only she can deliver.

We laugh, the sound filling the room like music, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. My gaze drifts to the empty frame on its new resting place. All I can think is how I can't wait until we can take that photo — the three of us, with Barbara Ann right there beside us — and slide it behind the glass. It will be more than a picture; it will be a testament to the family we've built, the love that binds us, and the strength that shields us.

AN: What did you think? Drop a comment or hit me up on the PM. I'm glad that for the time being the creative juices are flowing! From now on, I'll be posting on Mondays afternoon/evening. So after the next two chapters, if you're still interested, come and check on Mondays. If there's something to upload, it'll be on those days. This Monday though, there will be an update. See you then!