Approximately 35-40 years earlier
Coruscant
Deyla Rendar gasped once and promptly collapsed; her sheer, billowy blue gown settling around her frail, though distended, frame. Bent over in pain, she still managed to be, of all things, annoyed—the pain was bad enough, but why now, when she was alone and off-world, waiting in a hotel on her least favorite planet for a husband whose transport had been so conveniently delayed…Damn you, Taden, she swore briefly. At least it wasn't her first; she knew there'd been an end to this massive pain. She could get through this, she could manage without that son of a sandcrawler…her thin frame buckled under the force of another contraction, and she could not tell whether she wanted to scream or cry—maybe both.
She ignored the impulse, bit her lip till blood stained the bone-white floor covering beneath her, and forced herself to crawl out of the room. There weren't any droids inside; hers had been delayed along with the husband that provided them, and she, wife of the owner of RenTrans, could hardly be expected to trust someone else's droids. Being somewhat uncomfortable around aliens—she was hardly a racist, but she did find most of them oddly disturbing in matters of appearance and mannerisms—Deyla had insisted on having human body guards accompany her. Of course, after a bit of a flare-up with the two stodgy Corellians that Taden had given her, they'd been relocated to positions as far from her room as possible—Deyla grimaced at the unpleasant results of her hot temper…well, really, who was to know? She was big as a Bantha, but wasn't due for another month or so—still, Taden would punish them, and then her, for this carelessness…
Impossibly, she reached the doorway. Resting for a moment, her body suddenly contracted again. She whimpered, ashamed of herself as she did so, but she was merely human…
Slowly, painstakingly, Deyla managed to bring herself up to the intercom panel beside the doorway. By that time, her ears were buzzing and her eyes were filling with black glitter at the edges, so that she could not remember what she said—but, somehow, the guards did come in to find her; curled on the floor, pathetic in her sodden gown, and crying for her husband. Or cursing him—characteristically, it was hard to tell which. One of the men gathered her easily into his arms; the other arranged for transport to the nearest medical facility available.
Taden Rendar could hardly help being famous—after founding Corellia's, if not the galaxy's, most profitable shipping corporation at the age of twenty, his name was as famous as his face—which, incidentally, was replicated in a million cheap holograms for the amusement of young humanoid girls. For Taden was a true recipient of the Rendar's genetic blessings: a too-good-to-be-true combination of brains, brawn, and impossible wit—not to mention hair the color of an Alderaanian plain and eyes that would merely reflect the bright-blue intensity of Tatooine's sky at midday. For all this, Deyla was remained serenely stoic when he informed her, in the most casual manner possible, that she was to be his bride. If anything, he was to be thankful for her. As the daughter of a rather prominent member of Corellia's legislature, wealth, power and even good looks failed to impress her much—thanks to her father, she'd grown accustomed to the former; thanks to her mother, one-time "entertainer" Ralia Thriet, she had more than her fair share of the latter.
A supple body, skin so perfect that it looked artificial, red hair that flowed to her feet like a waterfall of flames—Taden had his pick of every beauty on Corellia, not to mention more than a few offworld, but the first time he met Deyla; at some otherwise forgettable high-society function—he'd wanted her more than any other woman he'd yet seen. After creating a monopoly on Corellian trade, with about as much effort as it took others to take a drink of water, creating a monopoly on Deyla Thriet-Kaldae hardly seemed impossible.
So she let herself be conquered—or so it initially appeared. Taden had always guessed that that fiery hair was symbolic of some inner wild streak that her publicly demure manner somehow managed to conceal—but it wasn't until their wedding night that he knew the extent of it. The weeks, months, and years after that provided interesting fodder for Corellia's tabloids, the writers of which were infatuated with idea of stormy relationship between the planet's two undeniably most-attractive humans.
Things quieted down a bit with the birth of Stanton Kaldae Rendar (though Taden had balked at the thought of giving his son the name of a politician, Deyla had insisted), but the years between then, and now had been spotted rather dismally with fights, separations, suspected infidelity, and a general good measure of ill will between two people who, despite their independence, could not live without each other—but insisted, against all reason, that it was possible.
Basically, Taden and Deyla Rendar were in love, but hardly anyone, much less themselves, realized it.
Intellectually, they were evenly matched, physically, none looked too good for the other—their desire for each other, despite all that fueled its ferocity, was undeniable…
Damnable as it was, thought Deyla viciously as they rushed her on some sort of hovercraft—she was too preoccupied with the contractions to notice the type—to the hospital. She remembered, all too well, the evening that had, ultimately, led to this utter agony—in retrospect, the pleasure had hardly been worth it. And his behavior on that day—definitely damnable. To come home after a 'business meeting' with that Ghylia slut—she could taste the whore, that nauseating mixture of too-expensive perfume and too-cheap morals, when Taden came to her bed that night. She'd slapped him, screamed, fought him for daring—daring—to come home and think that he could have them both in one night—he did anyway, seeing as how he had twice the heft and strength of his deceptively small-boned wife, and while the surrender to him had been admittedly sweet—it was definitely not worth this price. A price he hadn't been required to pay—
She was in a bed now—good, those fools of guards had managed to get her at least this far. Not entirely useless, like Taden—
No, now what were they saying? She hadn't needed any such drugs when she gave birth to her first son, granted, the pain was near unbearable, but she would live through it—alone, except for these two mindless walking blasters, Deyla needed to have all her senses about her, but the nurses could not, did not hear her pain-torn requests…and, against her will, all Deyla's senses gave way to an impossibly empty darkness…
A/N: Obviously, I made the whole lot of this up—the only name that was possible to find was that of Stanton Rendar, older brother of Dash.