Set in my If Everything universe (based on a one-shot titled If Everything) where if everything had gone according to plan when Anakin and Padme got married in AotC then:
Padme wouldn't have gotten pregnant
Anakin would have been a jedi all his life
Anakin wouldn't have gone to the dark side
Anakin and Padme's marriage would have remained a secret until the day they died.
In my fanfic, Anakin defeated Dooku and Palpatine at the battle scene at the beginning of RotS when Obi-wan was knocked out and Padme was made Chancellor after Mon Mothma stepped down. In this story, she is about forty years old and Anakin is thirty-six. Their marriage is a closely guarded secret.
There is no emotion, there is peace.
Supreme Chancellor Padmé Amidala leaned out her bedroom window and looked into the darkness that Coruscant's artificial lights illuminated. As she breathed in the air, she closed her eyes and listened to the noise outside her apartment. In this restricted Senatorial quarter of the planet, there was little sound besides the soft whirring of the occasional speeder and the clone patrol that watched over the 500 Republica. Still, Padmé could hear the movement of peoples across the city if she listened hard enough. Sighing, she gave up, and opened her eyes, focusing them to the imposing structure of the Jedi Temple.
Although she knew he was not there, that Anakin was in the Outer Rim, Padmé could not help but looking at the building with a sense of wistfulness. It is what claimed his life, and to an extent, it is what claimed hers. The seed of frustration she had hidden inside herself suddenly grew into monstrous proportions, and she shut the window with a bang and closed the curtains with a huff. Sulking she sat at her dressing table and grabbed her brush with clenched fingers and white knuckles.
She brushed her dark brown hair furiously, pulling at it until she yelped with pain. She stopped and looked at the mirror, eyeing herself critically. She was not the young woman she had been during the Clone Wars. The corners of her eyes held wrinkles that betrayed her age and her mouth featured laugh lines earned from polite political smiles. Gray was starting to creep into the roots of her hair, and for a startled moment, she pictured herself as others saw her—the aging Chancellor of the Republic who had chosen to live her life without a partner, shrouded in loneliness. Padmé had grown old without noticing it. In one fluid movement of precision, Padmé threw her brush at the mirror shattering it. For a brief moment, she was glad for the distraction of the noise, and relieved that she could hide from her own appearance.
In another moment, she remembered who she was and why she was angry. One of her handmaidens would have been awakened by the noise and come into her room out of concern. She was Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic, the former Queen of Naboo. She was not supposed to break mirrors or show unbridled emotion. As she waited for the inevitable knock on her door, Padmé collapsed into their bed and wept into her husband's pillow, fully aware at the lack of his presence.
She wept for him and the stolen moments that constituted their marriage. She cried for the life she would never lead. She mourned for the children she could never have. She sobbed for the galaxy itself, for the people themselves who would never understand what had been sacrificed for their sakes. In a rare moment of selfishness, Padmé Naberrie wept for herself.
Then, the knock came as she had expected it. "My lady," asked a timid female voice. "Is everything alright?"
"I'm fine, Sabé," Padmé answered in a voice muffled by her husband's pillow. "Go back to bed."
"Are you sure, my lady?" persisted Sabé. "Would you like a cup of hot tea or a glass of blue milk?"
"Go away, Sabé," responded her mistress harshly. "I want to be alone."
There was silence and heavy breathing on the other end of the door before a quiet "Good night, my lady," could be heard as Sabé walked away.
Padmé felt a twinge of remorse at treating her friend so severely, but she pushed it away with determination. She would worry about it in the morning. Nights were reserved for her and her alone. And Anakin.
As she thought about her husband, the rebellious and boisterous Jedi Master, Padmé felt her emotions calm down and her heart rate decelerate. She hugged his pillow even tighter, and breathed in his faint scent. She imagined him laying there beside her stroking her hair and murmuring words of love into her ear. She needed him so badly, it made her heart ache. But he was parsecs away, and there were some things that even a supreme chancellor could not will into being.
As they matured with age, Anakin and Padmé had come into the slow understanding that they were not all-powerful. There were rules that governed their lives. There were boundaries that needed to be upheld. There were appearances to be made. That did not mean Anakin did not sill maintain an air of arrogance that frustrated Master Windu. But the day he had killed Palpatine, something had changed within him. It was something not even his wife could understand.
Padmé led a life apart from her husband's, a life of political negotiation, subtle ploys, and evasive maneuvers. She led a life distant from the Jedi and the Jedi Code. But she was still invisibly bound by it, just as she was bound to her marriage vows. She led life separated from the Force, but it was still with her, recording her every move, breathing itself into the very essence of her being. She was bound by it too.
Getting up from her fetal position on the large bed, Padmé let her husband's pillow fall beside her and onto the sheets with a soundless thump. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and pulled herself up until she was in a standing position. She walked slowly over to her vanity, where shards of broken glass lay scattered across the table top. She crouched down to the floor as she opened the vanity's bottom drawer.
Pulling out a slim box that had had specially commissioned, made out of the dark wood of the Nubian trees that grew in the lake country. She opened the intricately carved box, and stared at what it contained. It was Anakin's padawan braid. She softly stroked it with her thumb. Her tears lessened and her heart grew warm as she thought about the moment he had presented it to her. He had been so proud, and she had been proud of him. Anakin had been born to be a Jedi even if he had not been born to uphold the Code he defended. Anakin was out there, somewhere on the Outer Rim, defeating injustice and promoting peace.
Padmé pulled the jappor snippet she kept tucked away in that box and put it around her neck. It reminded her of other times and other places. And of the boy Anakin had once been. Most of all, the jappor snippet reminded her of the unspoken promise Anakin had made as a nine-year-old boy, a promise to always care for her and love her. It was a promise he kept to this day.
Sighing, Padmé went back to her bed. She turned off the illuminators that kept her bedroom bathed in soft light. She pulled down the covers of the bed and tucked herself in. She touched her husband's pillow briefly with her fingertips, before turning around and facing the closed window. She closed her eyes and let her mind become filled with the trivial details and matters of state. She tried not to think of anything personal, of Anakin or of her family on Naboo. She tried to think of nothingness so that sleep could consume her.
Nights were reserved for her and her alone. And Anakin. What Chancellor Amidala did with her nights was not a matter of public speculation, was not something for her handmaidens to comment upon, was not shared with anybody else on nights like this. In her bedroom, she could let the mask fall, she could let the darkness cover her. She could be Padmé. As sleep claimed her, she whispered his name, "Anakin," and lost herself in nothingness.
When Chancellor Amidala emerged from her personal chambers the next morning, the Coruscanti sun rising over the horizon. She smiled cordially at her handmaidens and guards, and apologetically at Sabé. No one mentioned the broken mirror or the tear-stained pillow. Nor did they comment on the unusual necklace that hung around her throat. In the morning, Chancellor Amidala seemed to be the very picture of peacefulness and serenity. Proof of the previous night's fit of emotion was whisked away and made to disappear.
Chancellor Amidala walked into her office with its stunning view of the Coruscanti skyline, sat on her desk, and worked with a disciplined determination. She took messages, negotiated with politicians, and outlined treaties. She did not once raise her voice or cry out or burst into tears. She exuberated stillness and calmness that was admired by her supporters and made her adversaries feel ill at ease. She was passionless. She was unemotional. Days belonged to her work, to her efforts to keep peace in the galaxy. Because nights were reserved for her and her alone. And Anakin.