Chapter 1

You didn't want to come to Coruscant. However, as usual, your friends managed to twist your arm, forcing you to attend a fancy ball in the richest part of the planet. Something about you needing to be "social". They were constantly worried by your love of solitude. They never understood the draining effect people had on you. Besides, making small talk isn't something you're good at. Your mutism crushes that social skill.

You were always just a fill-in. An extra body to make your friends look popular and personable. If they could tolerate the awkward, mute girl, then they must have an amazing personality, right? And, in many ways, your friends were your own fill-ins. Only there to give you the appearance of being a well-rounded person.

Now you and your friends exit a large speeder and walk through the elaborate doors to the ballroom. All your friends' dresses are form fitting, riding high on their thighs, but low on their cleavage. It takes all your will-power not to roll your eyes.

How pathetic, you think to yourself. So typical!

Your friends hold ridiculously tiny coin clutches in their hands, causing you to instantly stand out with the clunky purse on your shoulder (in which is a book you've smuggled when your friends weren't looking). You all walk up to the large man at the door who was checking invitations. He smiles flirtatiously at your friends as he lets them in, but his smile fades when you walk past. Moments like this used to bother you. Now they feel natural. You just walk past the bouncer coldly, your eyes narrowing at him.

The room is stifling. Its walls are made of mahogany with black crystal chandeliers sparkling from dome ceilings, making you feel insignificant. You can instantly smell the tinge of over-priced booze and the aroma of imported cuisine. The music is elegant, but overwhelming. Each note seems to penetrate your mind.

And you can feel them.

You can feel every person in the room, as if their energy is clinging to your own. Lust, need for attention, ego, intoxication… you feel it all. It sickens your core, making your stomach muscles tighten in repulsion. You freeze your steps as you begin to feel disoriented from the onslaught of auras. Your vision blurs as lights dance in your pupils, the room looking fuzzy as it begins to spin.

Leeli is the first one to notice your distress. She hesitantly strays from the group and returns to your side. She is a snob like the rest of them, but has moments of empathy.

"Are you alright?" she asks gently.

You nod while your legs tremble beneath you. Leeli's amber eyes examine your face and scan your body, not believing your silent reassurances.

"Sit," she subtly orders as she takes your forearm and leads you to a highbacked chair against the wall. She sits you down on the plush cushion. Her glossy mouth was about to speak, when the rest of your friends started to wave at her.

"Leeli! Get over here! I found the guys. Leave her there. She's fine!" Jinn yells across the room.

Leeli does a double-take between you and Jinn. Eventually, she walks away from you, sending you an apologetic wave as she does so. An all-too-familiar scene. She quickly returns to the group, smiles plastered on their faces as several well-groomed gentlemen begin to swarm them. You can see bulges form within many of the gentlemen's pants.

Rutting pigs!

You shrug off your large purse and place it on your lap, letting your head lean against the back of the chair. Closing your eyes, you take deliberate breaths into your nose, then letting them escape through your mouth. The dizzying tingles in your head tickle your brain. Your body feels floaty and unstable. You don't trust yourself to stand. Your hands rest on the top of your head to ease the thumping. The stickiness of the hairspray your friends made you wear clings to your fingers. You wipe the residue on your dress, not caring if it left a mark . . .

A dress is not a napkin. Do not wipe your fingers upon it. Straighten your back and smile. You need all the help you can to find a husband.

You try to shake your mother's past words out of your head. Some memories were meant to be forgotten. Especially those of locked rooms and choking lace. You exhale and place your forehead on your knees, hoping past pains would leave with your breath, but you know they will always be etched into your bones.

Eyes closed, you slam your head onto the back cushion as you straighten. Even with your eyes shielded, the ballroom is still vivid in your mind. The dim lights from the grand chandeliers still suffocate you and the smell of drunken party-goers sours your stomach.

You open your eyes, jumping in your chair when you see someone standing in front of you. Your heart beats furiously against your ribcage as the man flashes you a guilty smile.

"Forgive me," his smooth voice purrs. "I did not mean to frighten you."

You let out the air you were holding in. Somehow, this man calms you. Very rare for you to feel anything but contempt for a man, but it is even more rare for someone to sneak up on you. There was something about this man… but you can't deduce it within the two seconds you've known him!

The man is of medium height and regal stature. You appear to be of similar ages, but he has a timeless quality about him. His blue shimmersilk robes give acknowledgment to a noble background and high status. His red hair is somewhat long, brushed back in a dignified style. His nose is prominent and his smile is friendly. And his voice, well… it's enchanting. His icy eyes nearly lethal.

You analyze the way he looks at you. His eyes are neither lustful or wanting, merely curious. He looks up and down your body, not to admire your form, but to figure out what your next move will be. He is most likely perplexed by your stillness and silence. You quickly realize he analyzes his surroundings as you do.

With long fingers and graceful movement, the man gestures to the chair next to you, "May I?"

You nod without smiling. By now, most people would be deterred by your awkwardness, finding any excuse to walk away. Not him. He has an ease about him. You doubt he would find any situation uncomfortable.

He smiles softly as he moves to the chair, making it tilt toward you slightly as he sits. You do not tilt yours, letting it face the crowd. Still, he is not deterred.

"I've never been one for parties," he admits. "I guess I am ignorant to the appeal of booze and small talk. However, my comrades enjoy it, so here I am."

He pauses, giving you time to respond. You only respond by silently gazing at some couples dancing nearby. You don't want him to see your frigid demeanor begin to thaw. Something about him just fascinates you, but you don't want him to know. It's like he's in your mind and sees every thought that passes by. And even more, he agrees with your strange, introverted ways.

He begins again after a few breaths, "What about you? Are you a fellow lover of quiet corners within a room of false smiles?"

You glance at him, still amazed that he essentially repeated your thoughts and feelings upon entering the ballroom. You nod and smile slightly, trying to show agreement.

He smiles back, "I take it you're not one for small talk either."

You feel heat gather in your face as you look down at the marble floor. The shame on your face is evident. The man's bright eyes look at you with concern.

"Did I say something?" he coos apologetically. "Forgive me if I…"

You shake your head, cutting off his words. You then point to your throat, hoping he can deduce your meaning, and that you wouldn't have to use the pen and paper you always carry around.

He looks at your pointed finger, then gives a nod of understanding, "Ah, now I know who you are." He then says your name. This shocks you. You then expect him to leave, not wanting to be associated with the silent freak. However, he leans towards you, smiling.

"I am glad I have this chance to meet you. I have long heard about you. Not just for your mutism, but for your poetry. It is breath-taking, if I may be so bold."

You are taken aback, but a smile graces your face before you can stop it. Poetry is your escape. You never used to show your missives to anyone, but one day, you left your journal on a transport. By some twist of fate, it landed in the hands of a Coruscanti publisher. Now your poetry is a household staple, but your face is not. You never let the publishing company use your image, only your name and a vague bio. Against your will, however, the publishing company went to great pains to point out you lack of voice.

The man notices your smile. It seems to give him more confidence, "My favorite poem of yours is Darkened Hope. I love how that sonnet perfectly grasps at the complexity and, at times, the falseness of hope."

Once again, your face blushes. Both with flattery and shame. You are pleased he enjoys your work, but it was never meant to be shared with anyone. Especially that poem. It was an extremely personal ode. You wrote it when your mother was terribly sick. At that time, you found yourself longing for her death. Only then would you be truly free.

She would not die for another five, excruciating years.

You notice the man's cheeks turn rosy. He shakes his head with embarrassment, "I do apologize. You must be tired of people talking to you about your work and here I am gushing like a schoolboy."

You shrug but smile at him, trying to convey that you don't mind. He laughs at himself a bit, then waves his hand dismissively.

"Where are my manners? I have yet to introduce myself. I am Ambassador Palpatine, representative of Naboo."

Your eyes widen. Yes, you did know this man. At least by reputation. After tragically being orphaned at seventeen, he quickly rose through the ranks of Naboo's legislature before securing the title of Ambassador at the age of twenty-eight. Very little was known about his personal life. He had never been the subject of scandal. He was known for his keen mind and subtle strength. His words were weapons if he so wished, but he was often described as a pleasant man who enjoyed his privacy.

He extends a hand. You extend your own, expecting a handshake. Instead, he gently kisses the top of your hand. He does not linger as some men tend to do. Still, he sends electricity up your arm. You inhale sharply, making your chest rise.

He lets go of your hand, smiling kindly. He then looks at the crowd of people beginning to dance to the sound of the string quartet. Palpatine then looks at you. He stands from his chair, moving in front of you. He extends his hand once more, bowing slightly at the waist.

"Shall we?"