Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY.

It’s ten past their agreed time.

A delay that still borders on socially acceptable on Coruscant, where erratic traffic can always be blamed. Or an overrunning meeting. Or some urgent report to Mas Amedda and Tarkin that simply couldn’t wait. Or a press interview about the Emperor’s energy initiative, if someone feels like indulging his outsized ego and basking in the illusion of importance.

There must be at least a dozen plausible excuses.

Of course, Mon doesn’t buy a single one of them.

With her dear husband, nothing is ever an accident. Everything has a meaning. He’s a master manipulator, who’s perfected the art of bending people to his will. Still an architect at heart, he knows exactly where and how to apply leverage, how to build layer upon layer of illusions, and how to keep clipping at a crack until the whole thing shatters.

So, the delay isn’t an accident. It’s a choice. An excuse to make her sit here longer, facing the panoramic windows of an upper-level Coruscant restaurant and the perfect view of the Federal district he’s arranged for her.

The server droid told Mon he “selected the table himself.”

How considerate.

The ISB headquarters dominate the vista. A large, gleaming pyramidoid of transparisteel and mirror glass, ten curved towers arranged in a circle around the main building. In the midday sun, its surface refracts and reflects the light in a cold, white spectrum right to her viewpoint.

White. Too much white.

Sharp white light breaking through that suffocating pitch-black coffin of the cell where she was held after the Petition of 2000 had been branded treason by the newly-proclaimed Emperor.

Mas Amedda, praising the Emperor’s infinite wisdom and compassion, announcing Palpatine decided to give the treacherous Senator a “choice” – a reeducation facility or a marriage to a vetted candidate. A tight leash to ensure she doesn’t run too far or causes too much trouble. Fifteen years ago.

Eggshell white of her soon-to-be-husband’s uniform, the shade affected by some members of the intelligence and security services. As if she had any doubt. Fourteen years, eleven months and twenty days ago.

Sterile white of her home – gleaming, polished, clinical. Every. Single. Year. Since.

You’ve made your point, darling.

Mon closes her eyes for a second, then opens them again. If nothing else, over the last fifteen years, she’s learned to look the fear in the eye. It’s staring back at her now.

The building is a statement, Orson told her once, something about architectural reassertion of control, precision, and competence.

An epitome of suppression and cruelty, if you ask her. But then, if Mon started listing things they disagree on, she’d need a year, not ten minutes.  

She wonders what prompted this. Now, all of the sudden. There have been many more times over the last fifteen years when she felt like tethering on the edge of abyss - a breath away from Orson catching her. Yet, time and time again, she managed to pull through, if only by a thread.

So, why  now?

Premonition coils in her stomach, spreading its cold tentacles through her body, gripping her throat and chest in its icy, paralyzing grip.

Could he know about her latest transfers?

Early in this masquerade of a marriage, he made it abundantly clear: he needed her clout, not her credits. He’d use her name, her connections, and her Senate rank to advance his social standing. Sheer talent and ambition, even the Emperor’s favor, could get the Mid Rim nobody climbing through the ranks only so far. There were doors that only political dynasties dating to the High Republic could open.

***

Then, Coruscant, 19 BBY.

“I think one trophy husband is enough for a lifetime, don’t you, dear?”

Mon slapped him then. Hard. For the first time, but definitely not the last.

Perrin’s death in the Clone Wars was still raw, she’d had no chance to grieve, no time to process it amid the chaos the other death – that of the Republic – unleashed on the capital and on her life. Arranged marriage or not, theirs had been a partnership. Marriage wasn’t about love, or passion, or happiness. It was an alliance. And Perrin, at least, had been an ally, or close enough.

Now, staring into electric-blue eyes lit with controlled fury and faint amusement, the imprint of her palm bright against his pale cheek, Mon realized how lucky she got the first time. Perrin didn’t argue. Perrin was ready – if not willing – to sacrifice his own ambition for the sake of hers. To fade into the background so that she could take the spotlight.

This man was something else entirely.

Far more perceptive. Far more ambitious. Far more dangerous.

In her home. In her life. Until death do them part – the Basic vow this time, not the Chandrilan one.

He caught her hand, still frozen in the air mid-motion, and, despite the furry in his gaze, the grip felt firm but not painful.

“Careful, Senator,” his voice dropped dangerously low, “one might think you enjoy this sort of thing.”

If his touch sent goosebumps across her skin, it was born out of anger and outrage.

Mon wondered then, also for her first but not the last time, if fate could strike twice in the same way. With the war and skirmishes with the Separatists still ongoing, an unfortunate death of an Imperial Lieutenant Commander wouldn’t be unheard of.

Alas, as the years passed, the bastard proved to be unfairly lucky.

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY.

Is it possible that he knows about Luthen? Vel? Bail? Yavin?

The list is open-ended, each new possibility more dangerous than the last.

She’s seen him throw people to the rancors – proverbial and literal - for far less. Petty revenge, skirmishes and power games in the Strategic Advisory Cell… 

“Apologies, the traffic is terrible at this time of the day.”

She hears the familiar voice – perfect annunciation, perfect cadence – his once Mid-Rim accent has been polished beyond recognition and into oblivion. One thing remains the same, though - he still drawls a bit when he’s lying and wants his opponent to know it.

“Think nothing of it, darling.”

Mon greets him with a smile, as brilliant as it is hollow and condescending. The one she has perfected over the last fifteen years in this sham of a marriage. It wasn’t always like this, though she admits that only to herself. Those rare, fragile moments of mutual vulnerability are better left forgotten. They don’t matter – just specks of dust caught in the desert storm of hatred, suspicion and endless attempts to outmanoeuvre one another. Padme told her once that Tatooine sandstorms could scour bare skin raw and level down anything and everything in vicinity. Well, Mon is willing to wager she knows one force just as destructive.

“I was just enjoying the view,” she adds, sticking to her political voice, polite and noncommittal.

Their signature brand of destruction always stays behind closed doors, both value the optics too much to stoop to something as vulgar as shouting in public. Make no mistake, their endless verbal sparring matches and jabs are infamous, Mon has even subpoenaed her dear husband to testify before the Senate on more than one occasion. But shattered glass, hurled datapads, and doors slammed shut? Those are reserved for the relative privacy of the Chandrilan Embassy, or his apartment at 500 Republica, a not-so-secret bolthole the bastard has kept for years, while she’s forced to live under the microscope. She’s set foot in it only once, and has absolutely no interest in knowing which of his latest conquests enjoys the view now.

Once the server droid leaves, Orson looks around, keen eyes taking in other patrons – anyone but her, really – as if calculating the distance between the tables. Then, he carefully places a small comlink next to his glass of Alderaanian wine. At least the silver object looks like it, though, with him, one can never trust appearances.

“Hope you don’t mind, I may be called back to the office.”

“How could I? The Empire comes first.”

He chuckles, clearly not buying it for a single second.

Then, Orson finally leans back in his chair and studies her. Left hand propping his chin, index finger brushing the corner of his mouth, elbow braced neatly atop the other arm - his thinking posture. Mon knows it by heart. She refuses to speak first. They’ve played this game more times than she can count, if only to see who breaks first. So, Mon simply offers him another perfunctory smile and holds his gaze. As always.

The man across her looks much the same he did fifteen years ago – same piercing blue eyes, striking and perceptive, same faintly mocking curve of this mouth. But the lines crossing his face are much deeper now - around his lips, between his eyebrows, across his forehead. His once brown hair is streaked with gray, and every time he comes back from one of his long trips off-planet, she’s taken aback by how fast it spreads.

The shell white uniform he wore when they first met is replaced – fittingly, perhaps - by the ghost white, now that the rank plaque on his chest is equivalent to admiral. He takes stupid, enormous pride in it, as if climbing through the ranks of  that senseless suppression machine is anything to be proud of. But then again, he has never let morality or sentiment stand in the way of his career.

“I love this place.” He breaks the silence first. “Brings back fond memories, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Though, I’m surprised they haven’t renovated since…”

***

Then, Coruscant, 19 BBY.

Their first official appearance together was, by the  press corps standards, a success.

Flashes of camdroids lit the hall, live feeds buzzed with running commentary about unity, love, and second chances. In the air that still smelled faintly of ozone from the last orbital bombardments - and of sulfur from fires still smouldering on the lower levels - platitudes about rebuilding the future rung almost like hope.

They did look good together – his white uniform and her gold dress - if one didn’t bother to look close enough to see the cracks. Mon bit the inside of her cheek hard, so hard she drew blood  – but better that than screaming at the guests.

That evening, she met Galen and Lyra for the first time.

“Never thought I’d live to see the day Orson settles down. Congratulations,” Galen offered.

“And condolences,” Lyra whispered  as soon as they were alone, both men pulled away to meet Mas Amedda

“For how long have you known… Orson?”

The name of the total stranger still sounded foreign on her lips.

“Longer than I’d like,” Lyra replied with a small, dry laugh. “And you?”

“Same,” Mon uttered before she could stop herself.

It was, unexpectedly, the beginning of a true friendship – one of very few good things  that came out of that sham of a marriage.

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY.

“…speaking of outdated relics…”

Something in his nonchalant tone makes Mon tense.

“…Davo Sculdun reached out, expressing his delight that we’d agreed to his son’s introduction to Leida next week.”

And that’s where it all comes crushing down on her.  Like transparisteel and duracrete all those years ago, when she was caught in the blast  – pierced by shrapnel and shards, trapped with no way out.

She hasn’t decided. Not yet.

She’s been clinging to the hope that there is  another way, any way that wouldn’t involve Sculdun’s help.

She’s been telling herself that she needs to buy time, that something else might come up, and she might still patch up the gaps in her accounts before anyone notices.  

But Sculdun must have taken her silence for agreement.

And now, she can’t deny it.

Telling the truth, to him of all people, means signing off the death warrant for the entire Rebellion.

Outside the window, the ISB headquarters gleam in the sunlight, harsh white light cutting the corner of her eyes like a knife, and Mon has to blink away the stinging sensation.

“I… haven’t had a chance to discuss it with you.”

“Clearly.”

Stall. She needs to stall until she can figure something out.

“As you might know, it’s part of Chandrilan culture…”

“Which you’re an avid devotee of,” he doesn’t even bother masking his sarcasm.

But it’s his eyes, rather than his voice, that cut through the fog of her frantic thoughts.

She’s seen many emotions in his eyes over the years - exasperation, amusement, anger, fury, desire.

But that one is new.

Disappointment.

As if he has any right…

“Well, I married at fourteen the first time.”

He weaves a hand at her. “And look how well that turned out.”

“The introduction is not binding…”

That’s the excuse she keeps telling herself, wearing it thin on the edges from repetition.

“Try again.”

“Leida is fond of traditions…”

He laughs then, in the honest - not holding back, as if she’s just said the funniest  thing he’s ever heard - not afraid to attract curious looks from other patrons. He, who’s always been so careful about appearances.

The laughter dies down, but the disappointed look doesn’t.

“She hates the world and your stuffy, outdated customs,” he says, then takes a measured sip of the wine before striking where it hurts the most. “You’d have noticed, dear, if you paid any attention.”

And there it is. The one battle he won fair and square, without even trying.

He’s right, if only just.

Leida doesn’t really hate Chandrilla, but children are perceptive – her daughter could sense  the tension between her husband and her family since before she could walk. And then, somewhere along the way, Leida picked a side, unconsciously and irrevocably.

And he’s wrong, if only just.

Unlike her mother, Mon would never, ever, call Leida a mistake. Still, she was an accident. A result of one-night weakness  when she simply wanted to feel something, anything, to prove she was still alive, and he happened to be there.  Mon loves her daughter, more than she ever thought possible, but she’s never been able to show it the way Leida wanted or needed.

It has always been him.

From the first moment he took the screaming newborn into his arms. He, who had always been indifferent to children, looking at them as meddlesome nuisance. He who had never even bothered to learn the name of Galen and Lyra’s daughter, referring to her as ‘the child’… From the moment electric blue met electric blue – his shade, not Mon’s – there were just the two of them, and her as an afterthought.

Sometimes she wonders, in her weaker, pettier moments, if he did it on purpose. A twisted Imperial way of striking back.

And yet, for all his faults, and there are many, she knows his love for Leida is genuine.

Possibly, the only thing about him that is.

***

Then, Coruscant, 13 BBY.

Mon was halfway through a briefing on new Outer Rim trade lanes when she heard the sound of the front door sliding open, faint echo of the staff’s greeting and the familiar steps on the marble.   Then, lighter, quicker, chubby little feet pounding alongside them.

“Mama!”

Her daughter barreled into the sitting room, still bundled in a blue coat that matched her eyes – his shade, not hers – her once neatly  braided red hair mussed in the way only an overactive four-year-old could manage. She always seemed happy to come home, back in those early years.

“Where have you two been?” Mon set the datapad aside.

“Uncle Lio!” Leida announced, climbing onto the couch and impatiently tugging at her buttons. “He treats germs.”

“Germs?”

Leida nodded earnestly, with all the confidence the toddler could master, and rattled on. “There was a big room with lots of screens and shiny things, but Uncle Lio said I had to stay in his office because the germs were sneaky. Hard to find and…” she furrows her little brows…

“Contain.” Orson gently prompted, crossing the room before Mon could rise from the desk to unfasten Leida’s coat, and kneeling to meet her height.

“Contain… if they spread.  I stayed in the office so that germs won’t find me.”

Sensing her confusion, Orson explained.

“Lio’s one of the Empire’s top internal disease experts. Healthcare research. We stopped by on the way back from lunch.”

“Healthcare?” Now, that was new, her dear husband never expressed any interest in medicine.

“Yes,” he said, peeling Leida’s gloves off and tucking them neatly into her pockets. “Early stage research, hardly worth mentioning outside of academia. Though, I suppose to a four-year-old it sounds far more exciting.” He glanced at Leida, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, their audience all but forgotten. “And you didn’t see a single germ, did you?”

Leida giggled. “No! Not even one.”

Years later, Mon discovered exactly who Uncle Lio was. She distinctly remembers shattering a few antique plates and quite a few of his favorite architectural models, while screaming at him until her voice gave out.

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY.

“Well, let’s cut the chase.”

He takes a data chip from his pocket and sets it on the table between them. Tapping it once for each sentence.  

“Aldhani. Ferrix. Your cousin’s other enlightening pilgrimages. Your financial ties to someone known as Axis. A wanted criminal and rebel, I might add. What a company you keep…” he chuckles. “Organa’s little scheme for a certain jungle planet. That fanatic Saw Gerrera.” He lets the silence stretch before leaning closer to her and whispering, voice low and cold. Controlled furry – that’s where he’s at his most dangerous. “You think you’re smarter than everyone, you need to get over it, darling.”

The galaxy feels as though it’s tearing at the seams, here and there. Slips off its axis and unravels into countless threads of half-truths and lies, plans, secrets, alliances - all laid bare on a pristine marble table at the heart of Coruscant. Her pulse stutters, heartbeat pounding in her ears, and Mon can swear she feels every shard of old shrapnel still buried in her chest  tear the muscle from inside out.

That chip is her death sentence. But that doesn’t matter. The Rebellion. It’s the death sentence for the Rebellion.

How long have you known? She wants to ask… but, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter either.

So, Mon exhales the only question that still does, “What do you want?”

“You’ll tell Sculdun that whatever deal you, in your infinite wisdom, have made, is of. I’m sure your oratory skills are enough to let him down gently. He wants the second Senate seat from Chandrila, so you’ll throw your full support behind him. Campaign at every stop. Attend every fundraiser. Answer every press question. Are we clear?”

Even though she hears his words as if from underwater, a small part of her – the one that can still function - admits that he has always been good at politics. In those rare moments when their interests were aligned – mostly to outmanoeuvre Tarkin or anyone else from the High Command - he’s been an incredibly effective ally to have. And that, right here, right now, sounds like advice. And an order.

Mon nods, not trusting herself to speak just yet.

Orson leans closer. So close that for an unsuspecting observer it may look as if he’s about to kiss her. He even brings his hands to her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks, if only to shield them from the view of everyone else. Then, he whispers into her lips.

“….If your little makeshift excuse of the Rebellion so desperately needs credits, let Organa trade his daughter in. Oh – only he wouldn’t, would he?”

And that’s how he hits right in the middle of her chest and twists the metaphorical knife for good measure.

***

Then, Coruscant, 10 BBY.

Mon had hoped, selfishly perhaps, that things would change when Leida would be older. That endless tantrums, refusal to take no for an answer – just because one insufferable man never said no to her, spoiling the toddler beyond reason whenever he was on-planet, leaving it to Mon to play the disciplinarian the rest of the time… that it all would pass. That their bond would grow stronger once they could talk, really talk. Lyra had told her as much.

Mon had planned the afternoon carefully: time blocked between Senate sessions, a rare day without an evening vote, her comlink switched to silent, tea waiting in the sitting room, pastries Leida liked. She had even rehearsed questions, just like before the Committee hearings, easy ones, about school and friends. And for a while, it went well. Her daughter was brilliant - bright, inquisitive, a touch too strong willed and self-confident for her years, but Mon could hardly fault that… she enjoyed the novelty of Leida’s  undivided attention, thinking that maybe – just maybe – Lyra was right.

And then the automatic door chimed.

“Dad’s here!” The way she said it - happy, relieved – went right through Mon’s chest like a gust of Tatooine sand storm.

Orson stepped in, still in uniform, looking as if he’d come straight from the spaceport. His eyes softened the instant they found their daughter. Leida ran to him, practically climbing up into his arms – crumpling that ridiculous white cape in the process -  before he’d even set down the case in his hand.

“I thought you were supposed to stay on Eadu longer?” Mon was the only one surprised, that much was obvious.

“Got done with the test sooner.” He managed to get out just before Leida barraged him with questions and anecdotes of her life while he was away, chattering a mile a minute, eyes lit up in a way Mon hadn’t seen over the last few months. And Orson answered every inquisitive why, tone patient, indulgent, like nothing else in the galaxy could possibly matter, without breaking stride once, only setting her down on the floor eventually but kneeling so that they’d were eye to eye.  

Mon watched from doorway, hands curled around a cup gone cold. She told herself she should be glad Leida had someone she trusted. Imperial or not.

Instead, all she could think about was how effortless it seemed for him. How her daughter’s face opened for him in a way it never did for her. How he never had to try. How unfair it was. All of it. She’d never thought she’d become a mother after Perrin’s death, but she did. And now, every time she tired to actually be one, he’d stride right in and take over the one place she wanted – but never managed - to claim.

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY.

“I will talk to Sculdun first thing tomorrow.”

Mon utters after he lets go of her and leans back in his chair.

“Tonight.”

“Noted.”

“Perfect.”

He leisurely  takes another sip of the wine.

“One more thing that has slipped my mind. I need to leave to oversee our latest energy and crystals’ research tomorrow. Galen is going, naturally, as well as Jyn,” by now he’s learned the name – mainly because Leida adored the older girl, and the two were as thick as thieves,  “Leida’s been begging to join, so I’ve agreed. You know how teenagers are, whatever one does, the other one has to copy.”

It’s not a trip.

He’s taking Leida away.

“For how long?”

He shrugs his shoulders.

“You know how unpredictable these things are. One day you’re on the edge of a breakthrough, the next one you’re starting from scratch. So… possibly until after the summer recess.”

“But her school-“

He raises his eyebrows, as if taunting her – so now you’re worried about that?

“Don’t worry, Galen will bore them to tears with his lectures, you know the man.”

“You don’t trust me with my own daughter?” Mon whispers, voice thinner than she intended.

“I don’t trust you with my daughter, which is much more important.”

He rises to his feet, leaving the chip on the table.

“Something to pass time while we’re away. A fascinating read. Riveting, really.”  Her fingers instinctively close around it, and he adds, “Don’t worry, I have copies. Have a nice day, darling.”

Chapter Text

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY.

“Say something.” Mon takes a sip of wine without tasting it, just to wash away the bitter, acid sensation in her mouth. She tries to still her hand, but the adrenaline of the last few hours keeps sending cold ripples of worry, fear and pain through her body, so she gives up a losing battle and sets the glass back on Lyra’s table.

Of course she tried to intercept Orson’s plan – commed Kloris the moment her husband was out of sight, though she knew, somewhere deep down, with the benefit of fifteen years of first-hand experience, that he’d never leave something like this to chance. Indeed, he was one step ahead of her: his own ISB driver had already picked Leida up.

Lyra doesn’t rush to answer, which, on reflection, is possibly the surest sign of how deep in trouble  they all are.

“Well… to begin with, that was a spectacularly stupid idea.”

Lyra has always been an equal-opportunity offender when it comes to telling the truth to one’s face. Why Mon thought that more than a decade of friendship would shield her this time, she can’t imagine.

“You should’ve never gone to Sculdun in the first place.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve told him to kriff off the moment he brought up his son.”

“I said I know.”

The thought that she contemplated it – even for a split second, that she gave Sculdun that opening, still makes Mon nauseous. There have been only select few moments in her marriage when she could admit her husband had a valid point in the argument -  no ifs no buts – and this is one of them.

“Good.” Lyra nods. “Now that we’ve established that, let’s see how we can get out of this mess.”

Mon massages her temples with trembling fingers. Her first impulse was to alert Luthen, and Vel, and then Bail. She almost ordered Kloris to take her to the Antiques gallery, but changed her mind the last minute.

Liability.

She’s a liability now, and Mon knows exactly how Luthen deals with those. Not the same day, of course - he’d never be that obvious – but sooner or later there’d be an accident. A malfunctioning  speeder. A wrong turn. A beautifully tragic ages-old tale of wrong time, wrong place.

That worries her, but it’s not the reason.

Orson knows. Liability by extension. But Orson left with Leida. And that, she realized with sudden, unapologetic clarity, means that should he become a target - more so than usual – Leida will be exposed as well. Collateral damage. Both the Empire and their fledging Rebellion have never hesitated to accept it, if it served a higher purpose.

The Rebellion comes first, we take what’s left.

That’s the mantra, isn’t it? The one she’s repeated to herself for years, the one and only way to shield her sanity and focus. But now? She can’t pretend not to see the wreckage, not after she’s come so dangerously close to sacrificing her daughter’s future.

And then, there is the other part of her. The one that still can’t quite parse this.

Orson knows. Has likely known for some time, judging by the way he played his hand. He has never been that intentional with the newly-acquired leverage. Dramatic, theatrical, savoring every single moment of making his opponent squirm? Yes, yes, and yes. And yet, his reveal a few hours ago lacked his usual shimmering impatience. He sounded almost weary, beneath it all. Mon would’ve missed it, if not for those fifteen years in forced proximity. But she didn’t. And now she can’t unhear it.

So, he’s know for some time.

Who else knows?

Why is she still free?

If this is a trap, why not strike while she still believed in her own impunity? Why burn the advantage of surprise?

He burned it for Leida.

The thought still stings – the reality of it, the crushing guilt, the mirror he’s held up to her, to the twisted, fractured reflection Mon barely recognizes.

That’s what they’ve always done to each other, since the very first meeting.

***

Then, Coruscant, 19 BBY

“I know why I had to agree to this farce, but you? Are you really that desperate to get ahead?”

She said the moment Mas Amedda closed the door behind him, offering a few minutes of privacy to the unhappy couple. The Grand Vizier didn’t even stay to observe  the spectacle of his own making, how very inconsiderate of him.

Still, Mon didn’t let it deter her. In the few days between her conditional release and this reunion, she’d rehearsed her speech a dozen times, if only to let the sound of her own voice fill in the heavy, suffocating silence. If only to drawn out the thoughts and the ghosts she couldn’t quite banish. The anger was there, as always these days: at herself, first and foremost, for being too weak and accepting Palpatine’s offer; at the sham of a marriage she’d been forced into; at the crawling fear that still made her breath catch in her throat every time she’d be left alone in the dark.

The man in front of her just raised his eyebrow in mild surprise, but other than this his expression remained unreadable. Lieutenant Commander Krennic – Mas Amedda had been kind enough to send her the name the day before. Mon spent the night staring at it until the line blurred in front of her eyes, not even bothering to open his personal file. No need. For her, he was the Empire now, the epitome of everything wrong in the galaxy. Smug, condescending, ruthless... The anger, her faithful friend and ally, gave her something to cling to, as everything around her fell apart.

“Though,” Mon went on, “why am I even surprised? When one lacks talent or skill, the only way up is to hitch yourself to a senseless intimidation machine.”

“And they say civility in politics is dead,” the voice with slight Mid Rim accent drawled in amusement. “Glad to see the rumors are exaggerated, Senator.”

Without waiting for permission, he crossed the space to the visitor’s chair and leisurely sat down, propping his chin with his hand, as if watching an infinitely entertaining holodrama. Keen blue eyes studying her, a faint curve of his mouth… It spurred her rage even more.

“Civility is reserved for those who deserve it, Lieutenant Commander. While you… you are wrecking every decent thing the Republic stood for. You think that if you wrap that Empire of yours in some threadbare excuse about safety and stability, no one will see right through it. Just like you think you can resort to something as barbaric and outdated as forced marriage,” she swallows past the sudden lump in her throat, “to get ahead... Do you even remember what it’s like to get anything on your own merit? Not through fear, not through intimidation or connections, but just because you actually earned it?”  

Contempt curved her mouth in a grimace, and Mon didn’t bother masking it.

His jaw tightened, and his piercing blue eyes narrowed at her last words.

Good. Let him hear the truth.

“Those who can’t lead, make sure the ones who can are too scared to stop them. And that’s what you do. The kind of false hero your new Empire deserves—”

“Well, that’s quite enough.” He said, suddenly rising to his feet, the facade of polite amusement gone in an instant. Shoulders squared, the faint curl at the corner of his mouth replaced by a tight line, his eyes hardened, colored by anger and an expression she couldn’t quite decipher, but the mere presence of it was enough for Mon to know she’d hit home, one way or another.

And then he started speaking, and whatever fleeting sense of triumph she felt, evaporated in a second.

“You think you’re better than everyone, that you know better. That if you make enough speeches, the war will suddenly stop. So tell me, Senator, how did your platitudes about peace hold up against the siege of Coruscant? And while you’re at it, tell me how did your push to gut the Chancellor’s budgetary powers helped the army you sent to fight the war without enough fire-power, clinging to a prayer and that ancient Jedi cult?”

Unlike her, Mon realised at this very moment, he did his homework, clearly studying her record.

He stepped closer to her then, holding her eyes in a staring contest, accent thicker, voice lower.

“You think that just because you glided into the Senate on your family’s coattails, you’re entitled to decide the fate of the galaxy… You’re the politician that Republic of yours deserved, and you’re the reason it failed so miserably.”

His eyes, electric, sharp, held hers as if daring her to flinch first. Mon could feel her own breath catch, a million of retorts – the bastard found her sore spots by some sixth sense - crowding in her throat and stealing the air from her lungs, as outrage rippled through her body. Up until this day, Mon had never thought that hate could be a physical sensation, but here and then it was.

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY

“So, are they fighting  again?”

The girl asks with affronted boredom and indifference. A telltale tone of someone who thinks they’ve mastered emotional detachment and, ironically, the clearest sign they still haven’t.

“What makes you think that?”

Leida rolls her eyes, as if he’s just said something incredibly obtuse - a carbon copy  of Orson’s signature expression reserved for Tarkin’s briefings.

“I’m fourteen, Uncle Lio, not four.”

“An astute observation.”

She rolls her eyes again – to emphasise the point, apparently - before presenting her thesis, just like he knew she would.

“Dad sent his driver to pick me up at school, interjecting Kloris. He brought me here instead of Mom’s or home.”

The fact that she calls Orson’s 500 Republica apartment “home” is one of the more glaring proofs of the ages-old wisdom about the best laid plans. Lio still remembers the day, almost fifteen years ago, when Orson mentioned his ill-conceived decision to go along with Mas Amedda’s suggestion and that marriage. As always, his friend hoped to pull that one off without getting too involved or incurring collateral damage.

Instead, here in his office sits the collateral damage, swinging her legs and staring at him with all-too-familiar blue eyes.

“Indicative, but not conclusive.” Lio refuses to make it easy on her, the girl has great instincts – not surprising, given her parentage – she can and should do better.

“He suddenly agreed to let me join him and Uncle Galen for that crystals trip. And you know how he gets sometimes. Too dangerous this, too early that. But now he’s fine with it.”

“Shouldn’t you be happy?”

“I am. But I don’t take good news at face value, you taught me that.”

“So, based on this evidence… What gives?”

“He’s mad at Mom about something. Which is not new…” She hurries to state the obvious with the same affronted indifference as before, “but it feels different. Something related to me, most likely. That’s why…”

“The extraction.” Lio finishes for her, answering the girl’s  unasked question. “For the time being, it’s better this way.”

Leida sighs and returns to sketching on flimsi. Real flimsi - Lio has learned his lesson from the chaos  unleashed the first time she visited. Truth to be told, he probably hasn’t. For what was meant to be a one-off exception, has turned into a habit… At least her line control and artistic intent – Orson’s words, not his – are much sharper now.

***

Then, Coruscant, 14 BBY

The first time he saw her, Lio – a seasoned, unflappable intelligence operative by that time - had to blink twice.

When he had commed Orson, asking him to come to the ISB headquarters for an urgent briefing on Geonosis, the last thing he expected was for his friend to take it literally… and appear barely 20 minutes later. With a toddler in tow.

Security called ahead from the reception, sounding… out of their depth. They’d seen a lot over the last few years, never breaking composure, but even they didn’t expect a child in the ISB headquarters.

So here he was – waiting for Orson in the hall rather than his office, still half-convinced it was some elaborate prank the agents downstairs decided to play on him.

The turbolift doors slid open and the first thing that Lio heard was…

“So, what does Uncle Lio do?” Orson asked a small red-head girl clutching his palm.

“Treats germs,” the child recited dutifully, wide blue eyes darting around to take in every detail.

“That’s right.” he said, bending just enough to meet her gaze. “And if your mother asks questions, you tell her what?”

She grinned. “I didn’t see any germs.”

“And?”

“I stayed in Uncle Lio’s office.”

“Perfect.”

Lio suppressed a laugh. She had the memory and discipline of a field operative already. Truly, this year’s recruits were an underwhelming bunch – could learn an thing or two about sticking to the legend from the kid.

“Well, I see you’ve brought reinforcements.” Lio decided to finally step out of the shadow.

“Figured I’d rather bring her here than leave her in the speeder.”

Lio raised an eyebrow. Sending the child home would’ve been an option, but he refrained from mentioning it. His eyes flickered toward the girl, who was now squinting in deep concentration at this rank plaque, tiny lips moving as she counted the squares under her breath.

“Four.” He decided to help.

“Dad has six.” She shot back instantly with a grin, holding up her hands to demonstrate - five fingers on one, and then her thumb sticking out awkwardly on the other.

Wonderful. Already learning how to pull rank. Definitely Orson’s child.

“Did he catch more germs than you?” She persisted.

Lio looked at Orson for support: his child - his problem.

“Uncle Lio treats germs…” his friend explained with more patience Lio has ever seen from him. “I’m working to make sure germs don’t appear at all.”

Which, Lio reckoned, was definitely an interesting way to describe their mission.

***

Already in the privacy of his office, Lio handed Orson the latest reports on cargo lane security breaches - they’d have to patch them up, if they were to keep Stardust secret. Rumors, like germs, had an uncanny ability to spread fast.

The girl seemed content just to sit in a chair and look around, but it didn’t last long, and she started squirming in her seat soon.

“You don’t have a stylus and flimsi, do you?”

“What are we, the Imperial Art Society?”

But Lio heaved a sigh, thinking through his options. Stylus - they could get. But the ISB never used flimsi – too easy to intercept, too outdated. Only datapads, protected by code certs and multiple layers of encryption. Still, as always when backed into a corner, Lio Partagaz came up with a genius solution and commed their Ministry Of Enlightenment  cousins across the plaza.

A few hours later, the reinforcement plan for Geonosis shipping lanes and new security protocols was devised, debated, approved and cascaded down the chain of command. And on the floor in the middle of his office, a tiny red-head added finishing touches to a yet another Imperial propaganda poster. Lio made a mental note to discreetly destroy the ones where the Supreme Commander’s obsidian helmet sported a pink bow and a flower.

Every so often during this first surreal visit, Lio would catch the expression on Orson’s face when he’d discreetly glance up from the datapad to check on the girl - warmer than his trademark look of superiority, almost bordering on fondness. Lio Partagaz was not the sentimental sort, but he knew a good father when he saw one. He also knew, perhaps too well given his line of work, the kind of trouble that could come from having a vulnerability and displaying it for the entire galaxy to see.

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY

“I’ll tell Luthen I’ve overheard ISB agents talking about getting close to Axis, that will give him enough of a warning.”

Completely plausible, given the company she keeps. Official dinners in their household have always been a vanity fair of the worst in the Empire – with a couple of exceptions like Lyra and Galen, of course. “And warn Bail that the ISB is ramping up surveillance in Gordian Reach sector…”

Her sudden marriage all those years ago did put her in a very precarious spot – too close to her dear husband and, by extension, to all his illustrious friends to fully trust her with all ins and outs of the Rebellion. And, ironically enough, too close to them to discard such a valuable source of intel.

“That’s a bit too precise.” Lyra interjects. “Throw in two or three other sectors in the Outer Rim, that should do it.”

Mon nods, Lyra has a point. And then, knowing Bail, he will start thinking of a Plan B.

“Are you sure Galen can stall the work long enough while they’re both away?”

Lyra huffs, as if offended on behalf of her husband, and Mon can’t suppress a smile – at least someone has a functioning marriage.

“Have you met Galen? Krennic will start crawling up the wall on day five, bored out of his mind.”

Inwardly, Mon isn’t that sure, seems more like Lyra’s innate distaste of Orson speaking, not that she can blame her. But Galen once told Mon, a year into their acquaintance, something that stuck, and taught her to never underestimate Orson again.

“…told him that when we were practically children. He could have done everything I did, but he preferred to dabble; to shepherd people instead of nurturing theory. I always respected his decision, but I can’t help thinking sometimes what a waste it was.”

Instead of arguing, Mon settles for, “Let’s hope Orson remains distracted enough not to notice…”

But deep down, she already knows. Of course he’ll notice. He always does.

***

“Let’s hope Orson remains distracted enough not to notice…”

Given what Mon has just told her, Lyra would bet her favorite kyber crystals collection that Krennic will be distracted. Though, admittedly, in his case, “distracted” doesn’t equal harmless. Most infuriatingly, in this particular instance, she can’t even blame the bastard as much as she’s used to – damn the sense of parental solidarity. With him, of all sentients! Starts blast her right here, right now.

Still, he will be sufficiently distracted - if not by fuming over the recent events, then by the sheer fact that Jyn and Leida together are bound to cause all sorts of trouble, on board of a star destroyer, a secret Imperial base, or a research facility – no place in the galaxy is safe from the destructive power of these two. So, hopefully, Galen will still be able to make progress according to their plan.

Lyra studies her friend – gone is the perfectly composed Senator the great galactic public is used to seeing on their holo-screens. In her place sits a woman rattled to the core, pulled apart by conflicting loyalties.

No one can throw Mon Mothma off balance faster – or more profoundly – than Orson Krennic. And, just because the universe loves symmetry, no one rivals Mon’s uncanny ability to infuriate him. These two, by some sixth sense, know each other’s faults and weak spots in ways no one else ever will – which is precisely why their marriage is a tightly wound ball of barb wire. Usually, no one gets out of that without bleeding. And yet, every now and then, Lyra has seen the glimpses of what that same knowledge could do, if either of them chose to use it for something other than harm.

She remembers laughing off Galen the first time he uttered ‘he’s fascinated’, a good few years into Krennic’s marriage. Galen has always been too quick to give people, especially Krennic, the  benefit of the doubt. Her brilliant husband, ever the man of science and theory, with too big a brain and too big a heart to see people’s faults. It would take her a few more years to realize, to her own astonishment, that maybe Galen did have a point. Maybe, just maybe. Still, not that it would make a difference; Lyra knows Krennic well enough to understand he’d never let sentiment get in the way of his plans.

Chapter Text

Now, Coruscant 5 BBY

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Lio asks, stretching in a high-backed chair in Orson’s 500 Republica apartment.

A vanity project that this place may be, it does have its uses, he’ll give Orson that, especially after a long day of hunching over surveillance projection screens in the headquarters, or Lio is just not getting any younger. Yet, occasional comfort notwithstanding, the mere existence of the apartment is a perfect reflection of the way Orson operates – brazenly  gets into a mess just out of spite and then acts infinitely surprised when nothing seems to be going according to the plan.

His friend wrung it out of Mas Amedda all those years ago under the pretense of needing a discreet  place to transmit Stardust correspondence when on planet, away from the prying eyes of his new spouse. The ISB headquarters could’ve served the purpose just as well, but Lio knows it was more about posturing rather than operational efficiency. If Tarkin owned a residence here, then Orson absolutely had to have one as well.

Then, there was another reason - to keep a safe place for his usual nocturnal carousing. Though, Lio suspects Orson never used that particular argument in front of Mas Amedda, he doubts the Grand Vizier would’ve viewed Orson’s ability to have extramarital affairs as a matter of galactic importance.

At least, that was the plan in the beginning.

The cabinet stays true to the original intent, protected by multiple code cert and biometric verification protocols. The sitting room they’re in is still holding up as well – sufficiently polished and opulent enough, if one needs to reinforce their importance in the Empire. But the guest room – or what was supposed to be one – has somehow morphed into a controlled chaos that is Leida’s space. Scattered sheets of flimsi with drawings everywhere, some framed, some just lying around; piles of school datapads; a poster of a band playing  whatever monstrosity kids call music these days. Lio knows that it all originally started as an exception, just a convenient place to keep the spare of the kid’s things on Coruscant, if Orson was on planet and wanted to spend time with his child without crossing paths with his wife. However, since then, it has sprawled out of control. Inevitably and quite predictably.

“Positive.” Orson answers, unclasping his uniform collar with an impatient flick of his fingers and taking a sip of whiskey – dark, unfiltered, some half-forgotten Mid-Rim brand they definitely don’t serve in reputable establishments on Coruscant. Someone is not playing around tonight. “They’ll be on Eadu most of the time. If Galen or I need to check on Stardust, one of us will still stay to watch over them.”

Which means Galen Erso will be playing a glorified babysitter.  Orson won’t be able to stay away from Stardust for long, driven by sheer survival instinct – they all know the Emperor’s patience is wearing dangerously thin – and his obsession with control.

“Galen Erso, a gaggle of scientists, and two overactive teenagers.” Lio’s mouth twists in wry amusement. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Orson rolls his eyes – the same expression he witnessed on Leida’s face a few fours ago.

“Of course I’ll leave half a garrison of Death Troopers with them. Whom do you take me for?” Orson snaps. “An ISB supervisor?”

Lio has known the man long enough to see past the bitting sarcasm. Instead, he notes how his fingers tighten around the glass and the way his shoulders remain tense even after the whiskey should’ve dulled the edge.

It all would be almost funny, if it weren’t putting the security of the Empire on the line.

The same man who, without blinking an eye, had triggered the sterilization of Geonosis, mining on Malpaz, Samovar and the chaos that followed, couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving his daughter under her mother’s roof. So much so that he has just thrown decades of painstakingly collected evidence into the wind, if only to get one over Senator Mothma. And that alone, should it come to the Emperor’s attention, would sign off his death sentence, Stardust or not.

“Now, shall we move on to things that actually matter…”

Lio nods without even listening, if only to give Orson the illusion of control.

***

Then, Coruscant, 19 BBY

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Lio asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, but even his professional  demeanor struggled to withstand the test of taking that particular enterprise seriously. And he’d heard his share of outlandish ideas. Still, he set a small data cylinder on the desk between them.

Orson leaned back in his chair, leisurely crossing his legs at his ankles.

“The Emperor thinks it is. As well as the Grand Vizier. That should be enough for you.”

“Mas Amedda’s job is to think in leverage. My job is to think in contingencies.”

Still, Lip suppressed a sigh and gave Orson the briefing he was actually sent here for.

“Senator Mon Mothma of Chandrila. Idealistic. Self-righteous. Popular on her home planet. Quite adept at collation building. Our analysts assess her as one of the few capable of rallying the Senate, should things… turn.”

Which is precisely why this marriage - it would forever compromise the Senator in the eyes of her allies.

“And I’d know all of that,” Orson sounded unimpressed, “if I just watched a few Galaxy-SPAN reports. It’s been all over her speeches since she joined the Senate.”

Interesting.

Meanwhile, Orson went on:

“Do you have anything useful in these files? Allies, lovers, anything that I can use for leverage?”

“Held secret meetings with Senators Organa, Amidala, and a few others to undermine Palpatine. Pushed for cooperation with the Separatists. Established covert channels of communication with the enemies of state, if you want the official version. As for lovers… Childhood infatuation with a one Tay Kolma, a Chandrilian banker. More recently, she’s been seen in the company of Lud Marroi, Senator from Cerberon system, though we don’t have any compromising footage just yet.”

Orson nodded, clearly getting close to what he wanted.

“Anything else?”

“The rest as you’d expect – born into a political dynasty,” Lio saw Orson’s lips twitch – he did hate nepotism, mostly because they had to claw his way  through it every single day.

“Traditional arranged marriage at fourteen…”

“What a swell party it must’ve been.”

Orson didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm, not that it was unexpected.

Up until today, his friend’s view of matrimony, colored by Galen Erso’s sudden marriage, could be summed up as “the graveyard of talent and freedom.” Not surprising, coming from Orson, infamous for his nocturnal carousing. Credit where credit due, though: he had always been strategic enough to avoid entanglements that might compromise his position, and careful enough to never let an affair last long enough to create an illusion of permanence.

Lio cleared his throat and went on:

“Wanted to be a historian, according to her private tutor...”

That earned another twitch of his lips and a roll of blue eyes.

Seems like it’s bad luck Senator Mothma.

“Her interests include smashball—”

“Just when you think one can’t be more of a cliche…” Orson leaned forward and took the data chip. “I’ll need more whiskey to get through the rest.”

“Again, are you sure it’s a good idea?”

“Whiskey or marriage?”

“Both, but let’s start with the latter.”

“Hmmm… Let’s see. The Emperor rewards those who can stay three steps ahead and deliver on his vision. Strategic Advisory cell put me on his radar. But this?” Orson twisted  the data cylinder between his fingers. “This could make me indispensable. The  mere fact of this joyous union will strike at the very core of any case she’ll ever make. Palpatine puts a leash on one of his loudest critics, while I listen, report, and steer…”

“It’ll compromise her, sure. Have you thought that it’ll compromise you as well?”

“It won’t come to that.” Orson waved a dismissive hand at him. “Sooner or later, she’ll make a mistake. Everyone has a weakness. I’ll be there to ensure the Emperor knows of it and how to exploit it.”

“Famous last words,” Lio muttered.

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY

“So…”

“So.” Orson stares into his glass, as if it holds all the answers. “I’ve put a tracker inside the data cylinder. If, while I’m away, she shares it with her friends, you know what to do. And if your supervisors somehow fail to prevent their glorious escape, then, I suppose, we all will join the ever-lengthening ISB death march.”

“Well, let’s drink to that,” Lio huffs a mirthless laugh, and clicks his glass against Orson’s. “But you don’t think she will.”

“If she has an ounce of self-preservation left, or if she feels guilty enough…” he takes a measured sip of his whiskey, eyes glued to some imaginary spot on the carpet, “she won’t share the evidence. Will warn them, perhaps. Drop hints, urge caution and alternatives to that little base of theirs. But I don’t think it’ll be enough to make them change plans, they’re too far gone for that.”

Ironic, given the same could be said about them.

“And if you’re wrong?”

If the Senator does share the cylinder, the identity of the person she procured it from would be obvious, and both know it. Then, their cousins in the military intelligence will join the game, and it’s anyone’s guess who makes it out alive.

Orson’s jaw tightens, whiskey softening the edge of his clipped vowels just a bit. “I’m in no position to stop you from doing your job, Lio. It’ll be my mess to clean up.”

And that… is a surprisingly accurate description.

Leida.  

The only being in the galaxy Orson cares for, in his own peculiar, possessive way. The feeling is fierce and genuine. Born from a yet another perverse tug-of-war with Senator Mothma, true, but no less real. Admirable, for a father. Catastrophic for someone trying to navigate the highest echelons of the Empire, shackled to the wife entangled with the Rebellion.

And then, there is Senator Mothma.

Lio has long since given up trying to define whatever proverbial knot of feelings ties her and Orson together. Hate, fascination, fury, begrudging respect, exasperation – sometimes all within the span of an hour. She’s the only person capable of seeing right through Orson. The only one capable of making him lose the ability to think clearly. And, paradoxically, the only one whose opinion he never dismisses outright – no matter what he says.

Two cracks running through the same wall.

One’d think that an architect should’ve known better.

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY

As soon the door behind Mon slides shut, Lyra comms Galen to warn him that Krennic knows. Not everything, thanks Stars, but enough to warrant more caution. Hopefully, Galen can navigate the minefield of Orson’s moods over the next few months.

“… So, he’s mad at her, as you can imagine. And now everyone is in the blast radius.” She finishes on that happy note.

“Anger – we can deal with. But he’s also hurt and disappointed. And that’s new.”

Her husband sounds almost sympathetic at the end.

“You have to let someone close enough to get truly hurt, or to have the right to be disappointed, Galen.”

“You think he didn’t?

Lyra’s first instinct is to dismiss the notion outright. It’s Krennic they’re talking about – of course he didn’t. She still remembers the first time she heard about the marriage and saw right through Orson’s bluff. But… she also recalls the first time she doubted her own judgement.

***

Then, Coruscant, 19 BBY

“Orson is getting married.”

“Come again?”

“He’s getting married.”

Here was her husband, utterly serious. And yet, his words didn’t make any sense. At kriffing all.

The idea was absurd. Krennic, who had always scoffed at domesticity of their marriage, clearly picturing himself above  something as pedestrian as matrimony. Krennic, who was too smug, egoistical, and self-absorbed to actually fall for another human being.

“Who’s the poor woman?”

“Ask him yourself, he’s coming to dinner tonight.”

On a normal day, this prospect alone would’ve been enough to make Lyra lose any appetite and feign headache to avoid the dubious honor, but for once in her life, in the battle between curiosity and her distrust of Krennic, the former won a decisive victory.

Later that evening, when he finally arrived, wine in hand and irritating smirk firmly in place, she wasted no time.

“So, tell us about your fiancée, Orson.”

He raised his eyebrows, clearly taken aback by such avid interest, but quickly regained his composure, slipping back into his usual smug self.

“Senator Mon Mothma… the woman keen to save the galaxy from itself. No one but her can do it, apparently.”

He made sure to sound enamored – or Krennic’s version if it, at any rate, he clearly hadn’t had enough practice. He’d need to tone down the sarcasm if he were to keep up this farce.

“That… doesn’t sound exactly like the sort of woman you’d fall for,” Lyra flashed him an apologetic – through, not really – smile. “So, forgive my confusion.”

“Well, you know what they say,” he spread his hands as if conceding the point, “opportunities attract.”

“Yes but… What made you lose your mind so quickly to propose?” She smiled again. The two could play his game. “I distinctly remember you calling marriage obsolete, shackling, and debilitating.”

His eyes widened, if only a bit – yes, she had overheard his not-so-complimentary tirade to Galen after their rescue, and she wouldn’t pretend otherwise.

“I realised that… if I didn’t shackle her to myself, selfish as it may seem, she’d run way. And I wouldn’t forgive myself if I let her slip through my fingers.”

He sighed then, honest to Stars, the bastard had the audacity to sigh in a self-reciprocating way, as if admitting how wrong he was. Lyra could almost imagine how easily less wary women, the ones dazzled by charm, good looks, and uniforms, might fall for it.

Her husband, ever the optimist, slapped Krennic’s shoulder, clearly buying the tale. The best lies are built on truths – and at the core, this admission did sound suspiciously like Orson. And while Lyra could see right through his pretence, she decided not push further. Not in front of Galen.

***

Then, Coruscant, 18 BBY

She’d rather be home with Jyn and her husband. Apparently, being a genius didn’t make one immune to rain, or the common cold, or the common male delusion of invulnerability. So, alas, here she was, hand delivering his latest research notes to the Chandrilian Embassy.

The staff ushered her to the waiting area – immaculate, elegant, and unnaturally white. Jyn would have left a dozen stains on that pristine white marble floor and those carved doors within an hour. Not for the first time, she wondered how, in the name of stars, anyone could possibly imagine raising a child in a place like this.

She heard it before she saw it – a familiar rapid-fire cadence of their private arguments.

“I’m well enough to go.”

“No, you are not.”

“I am.”

Mon sat on the sofa, hands crossed over her chest – the gesture that made the swell of her belly even more pronounced. Lyra watched Orson’s jaw tighten.

“You cried over the Ewoks documentary yesterday.”

“It was moving. And they were sweet. So of course, I was upset that the tribe was sentenced to a systematic execution.”

“They. Ate. People.”

“So what?”

Orson muttered under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like a mix of Mid Rim curses and prayer for strength to the stars.

“Do you seriously believe you are ready to go to the Empire day celebration and politely converse with Sly Moore and Mas Amedda… the same sentients you routinely refuse to entertain in this house?”

“It’s not my fault you prefer to socialize with sycophants and sociopaths, darling.”

Oh, no.

Mon, the ever careful, composed Mon, who masterfully wielded veiled insults without ever crossing the line of outward challenge… was gone. Swept away by a wave of something as terribly banal as pregnancy hormones.

“…And don’t tell me what I can and cannot do!”

Lyra hated to admit it – but Orson had a point.

“You know what? You’re right. If you want to cause a scene and end up on front pages of every holo-tabloid tomorrow, who am I to stop you?”

The tone was predictably sarcastic, dry, even a touch amused. And yet, before Lyra could mentally add it to the ever-expanding list of his sins, he went on.

“I just thought that instead of wasting time on trading barbs, you’d want to actually prepare for questioning Tarkin in that little Committee of yours tomorrow. But then again, if you’re content with making a point rather than actually making a difference…”

He shrugged his shoulders, as if conceding the argument. But Lyra knew a typical Krennic bait when she saw one. And, indeed, barely a minute later, she heard…

“Orson…”

Mon extended her hand, and Lyra noticed Orson slip a data cylinder into it, a small, satisfied smirk playing in the corner of his mouth.

Orson turned on his heels, clearly intent to finally greet his guest, and Lyra hurried to move away from the carved door.

“At least make sure he has a hangover tomorrow!” She heard Mon calling out after him.

“Your wish is my command, Senator.”

***

Now, Coruscant, 5 BBY

The Chandrilan Embassy greets her with cutting white light, amplified by polished marble and pale stone. Over the years, Mon has learned not to flinch. Truly, there are fates far worse than this.

Sharp white light breaking through that suffocating pitch-black coffin of the cell. It should be a welcome reprieve but feels like a thousand of tiny needles piercing her eyes at once.

She squares her shoulders and steps inside, the staff’s polite greetings barely registering on the periphery of her thoughts. Mon walks through the labyrinth of white, and while she knows the route by muscle memory alone, each new step feels as if walking on quicksands tonight.   

Her office, the sitting room, her bedroom.

No delicate crystal art, no fragile ornaments or trinkets, nothing that could be snatched in a fit of temper and hurled across the room. Flowers and decorative trees grow only  in marble vases and pots, bolted or glued to the surface, because about a decade ago, one insufferable man blackmailed her stuff into doing so. Say what you will, but he does have a well-developed self-preservation instinct. The gall of it all almost made her laugh back in a day, when she reached for the nearest object in sight and… failed to move it even an inch, faced with the sparkling mirth in the electric blue eyes of the man who’d learned from his mistakes. Almost. He ducked a teacup that day – she’s nothing if not resourceful.

***

Coruscant, 19 BBY

It was bad enough that he moved into her home – well, strictly speaking, the home of the Chandrilan people, but the point remained. He also took over a spare cabinet – Perrin never used it, so that one didn’t sting as much as she expected. At first, Mon even hoped she might break into some of his files – blessed be the naïve. Then, he brazenly claimed half  the shelves in the reception hall, littering them with architectural models – spaceports, bridges, utilitarian skyscrapers - that looked utterly out of place against the embassy’s ephemeral sophistication. As if that weren’t enough, he made a point of claiming the seat opposite her at the head of the dining table – not beside her, as Perrin always had, but across from her. He also appropriated one of the guest bedrooms, which, on  reflection, was the only silver lining.

I much prefer spending my nights in willing company, Senator. Apologies if it contradicts your narrative of suppression.

So, thankfully, theirs was a marriage in the name only. Though, it was still a hard enough of a blow. Impossible to explain to former allies, not in a way that could erase the shade of distrust from their eyes. Sparking a hundred questions and commentary from her family. Leaving her no choice but to her attend Imperial functions, smiling to the very people who trumped over everything she had ever fought for, while very cell in her body wanted to scream.

Ironically, and that was the paradox of her sham of a marriage – Mon soon discovered that her dear husband was the only Imperial she could defy without the fear of immediate retribution. First, because, if the way he never failed to provoke her, as if testing what would make her façade break, was any indication, he genuinely enjoyed their verbal sparring. Second, he needed her clout and her connections, so she knew he’d hate to waste leverage too quickly. Unless he managed to catch her plotting, then he’d be the first one to turn her over to the ISB.

The argument had been going round in circles for nearly an hour before Mon’s patience – the one quality she always prided herself on - finally tore loose.

“You aren’t listening!”

Krennic – Orson, get used to saying that, darling  - lounged on the sofa in her – their – sitting room. Index finger brushing the corner of his mouth, electric blue eyes fixed on an imaginary spot behind her.  A habit of his, she had learned, that meant he was deep in his thoughts, mind drifting some elsewhere.

“On the contrary,” he drawled, “I hear every word. I simply find most of them irrelevant, so I am ignoring you.”

The vase left her hand before Mon had even realized she’d reached for it. A heirloom, porcelain-thin and elegant, a part of the twin set sent by her mother as a wedding present, now spinning across the room with the speed and precision of a pitch. It hit the wall a breath away from his head. Mon might have traded centuries-old historical manuscripts and a smashball court for the Senate floor, but the arm was still there.

For the briefest second, Orson froze, his eyes widened in astonishment. And – though it may have been just an illusion – a touch of begrudging admiration.

Then, the surprise vanished, replaced by that annoying smirk of his. He rose to his feet, bent to pick up one jagged fragment, twisting it between his fingers as if lamenting the damage.

“Impressive pitch. But mediocre aim.”

But Mon barely heard him. She just stood there, chest heaving, a strange lightness blooming in her body, while she stared at glittering white and gold shards on the floor.

She had never allowed herself to get so utterly lost in anger and outrage before, always keeping an iron grip on her emotions. And yet, with him, for whatever reason, it felt as if some proverbial dam had just broken, all those feelings coursing through her veins, fierce and intoxicating.

“If I really wanted to hit your head, dear, you wouldn’t be still standing here.”

The retort slipped from her lips on sheer instinct.

He almost laughed at it but seemed to catch himself at the very last moment, settling for a smirk instead as he crossed the room toward her. Mon felt his words before she heard them, when he leaned closer, hot breath grazing the bare skin of her neck.

“Guess I’ll just learn to duck faster, darling.”

He closed the door moments before the second vase shattered. She never liked that set anyway. Mon touched her neck, trying to suppress a sudden a shiver that run down her spine. Adrenaline and anger release, she told herself.