The night on Coruscant was suffocating, the city-planet’s endless sprawl of lights and towering structures casting a dull glow through the windows of the Emperor’s private chambers. Anakin stood at the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on the painting of Padmé that hung above the fireplace. Her image, eternally preserved in warm colors and gentle strokes, did nothing to soothe the torment inside him. Instead, it served as a cruel reminder of what he had lost—what he had destroyed.

His breath hitched as he turned away from the portrait, the familiar pang of guilt gnawing at the edges of his resolve. Padmé had been everything to him: his light, his hope, his reason. And yet, in his desperate grasp for power, he had suffocated that light, leaving nothing but darkness in its place. He had become Emperor, ruler of the galaxy, but at what cost? Padmé was gone, their children with her, and all that remained was this hollow shell of a life he had built atop their ashes.

His eyes fell upon the figure lying on the bed. They were beautiful, no doubt—an Imperial Consort chosen carefully for their status, their allure, and their potential to carry his legacy. A symbol of his power, his control over life and death, they were supposed to fill the void Padmé had left behind. But instead, they only deepened it. Where Padmé’s presence had been a balm to his soul, this consort was nothing more than a tool—a reminder of his failures, of his inability to ever reclaim what he had lost.

Anakin moved closer, his breath heavy with the weight of his nightmares. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, haunted by visions of Padmé’s final moments—her eyes filled with sorrow as she breathed her last, their children slipping into the void before they could even draw their first breath. It was this torment, this ceaseless agony, that drove him to the edge night after night. And tonight was no different.

His hands clenched into fists as he reached the bed, his dark robes rustling softly in the stillness of the room. He saw as his Consort looked up at him, their eyes searching his face for any sign of tenderness, of affection. But there was none. There never had been. He saw their gaze as a challenge, a reminder that they were here not because of love, but because of necessity—because the Emperor needed an heir, and they were the vessel through which it would be born.

Never once would they be anywhere near the love he showed Padmé. In his eyes, they were undeserving of it.

Anakin’s grip tightened around the sheets as he leaned over them, his breath hot and uneven. The rage that simmered beneath his calm facade began to bubble to the surface, fueled by the memories of Padmé’s death. He could feel it—his need to punish someone, anyone, for the pain he endured every time he closed his eyes. Perhaps if he claimed them right then and there, like he had done before, those sexual urges can dull his pain…if only for a moment.

“You will never be her,” he hissed, his voice low and menacing. “You can never replace her.”