The grand halls of Theed's royal palace echoed with the sound of careful steps and distant chatter. Queen Padmé Amidala of Naboo—now Lady Clovis—stood beneath the arched colonnade, her hands folded neatly over the embroidered silk of her gown. She looked like a portrait—perfect and poised. But inside, she felt like paper, crumpling at the edges.
She had married Rush Clovis for the sake of Naboo's future, for peace, for economic trade routes that needed stability. He was charming, influential, and eager to align their planets. It had made sense at the time. More than sense—it had seemed like strategy, purpose, duty wrapped in romance. Or so she thought.
In the beginning, he kissed her like he believed in them. Now, months later, their dinners were quiet, full of half-finished thoughts and lingering gazes that never met. Their bed was cold more nights than not, and when he touched her, it felt practiced. Memorized. Dutiful.
Only one person knew the truth—Sabé, her closest friend, confidante, and the only person in the palace who dared to challenge her silences.
"You're too young to be this… dead inside," Sabé whispered one night, lying on her side on Padmé's bed, picking at the tassels of a throw pillow while Padmé stared up at the ceiling. "I know you wanted to do right by Naboo. But Padmé, you're still allowed to want more."
Padmé had turned her head then, eyes shadowed. "I'm not sure I know what more looks like."
She found out three weeks later.
He arrived with the Alderaanian delegation, a late addition to a summit on interplanetary security. His name was Anakin Skywalker, nephew to Bail Organa, and newly appointed liaison for youth political initiatives. He was bold, young, infuriatingly handsome—and passionate in a way that Rush hadn't been in years, if ever. His speeches made the chamber stir. His words made Padmé listen.
They spoke for the first time over a shared datapad in the conference lounge. He offered her a smile—too easy, too curious—and leaned in without hesitation.
"You're shorter than I expected," he said.
She raised a brow. "And you're younger than I expected. That makes us even."
The banter started there and didn't stop. Every meeting after, they gravitated to each other. Never alone. Never inappropriate. But charged. It frightened her, how quickly she looked forward to seeing him. How she replayed things he said. How she laughed more in one week than she had in her entire marriage.
Anakin noticed. Of course, he did.
"You're not happy," he said one evening, after a gala she had hosted. He found her on the terrace, barefoot, heels in hand, face tilted to the stars.
She stiffened. "That's not your place to say."
"I'm not wrong, though." He stepped closer, and his voice dropped. "I don't see love in your eyes when you look at him."
Her breath caught, and for a heartbeat, she didn't know who she was—queen, wife, woman, friend. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I see you," Anakin said. "And I think if I kissed you, you wouldn't stop me."
She slapped him.
Hard. So hard her palm stung and he staggered half a step back. Her chest heaved.
"How dare you?" she hissed, her voice trembling. "Is that who you think I am? Someone who cheats behind closed doors? Someone who flirts in public and falls into beds in secret?"
"No," Anakin said quickly, too quickly. "No. I—Padmé, I didn't mean it like that. I just—I don't think you're happy. And I—"
"You think because my marriage isn't a love story, that gives you permission?" Her eyes were wild, full of fury and shame she didn't know where to put. "You don't know me. You know nothing about me."
Anakin stepped forward again, his jaw tight. "If I thought you loved him, truly, I never would have said anything. I didn't say that because I want you in some selfish way. I said it because I felt something between us. Something real."
She shook her head. "You shouldn't have said it at all."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
And then she turned and left—barefoot, breathless, undone.
She didn't see him again for the rest of the summit. Not at the final ceremony. Not at the departure gathering. Not even in the halls. Whether he avoided her or left early, she never knew.
But every time she laid beside her husband in their vast, empty bed, she remembered how Anakin had said her name.
Like it mattered.