When Ambition’s Shadows Converge

The room is all sharp angles and velvet shadows: a drawing room frozen between centuries. A fire crackles in a stone hearth, but the warmth doesn’t reach the high ceilings or the gilded mirrors that lean, cracked, against the walls. A crystal decanter sweats on a side table between two armchairs—one draped in ermine, the other in black velvet. Rain slashes against the windows.

Lady Macbeth enters, her husband’s dagger still clutched in one hand. The blood has dried to rust.

Cruella de Vil follows moments later, trailing cigarette smoke like a second gown. She lets the door slam shut behind her.

Cruella de Vil: Darling, if this is a séance, I’ve had better. Last time I chatted with a ghost, it was at a Paris fashion house. This— she flicks ash into the fireplace — feels like a funeral parlor.

Lady Macbeth: Aye, and whose pallbearer are ye? Your own, perhaps? She grips the dagger tighter. Men die to escape you, not for loving you.

Cruella de Vil: Honey, men die trying to win me. That’s the difference. I don’t kill them—I ruin them. She plucks a cigarette from a silver case and lights it. But you… She tilts her head, studying the dagger. You’ve got the look of someone who did the deed herself. How… quaint.

Lady Macbeth: Quaint? I am the architect of a king’s downfall. My hands built a grave. She holds them out, palms up, as if stains bloom there still. What of yours?

Cruella de Vil: Fur. Skin. Velvet. The finer things. She leans back, smoke curling around her face. But you… you’re all daggers and destiny. Did you at least enjoy it? The climb? The view from the top?

Lady Macbeth: The view was a nightmare. My crown, a thorned noose. My husband—a hollow shell. She sinks into the velvet chair. What glory is a throne built on ash?

Cruella de Vil: Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Ashes are just memories with better lighting. She pours herself wine, the clink of crystal sharp. I wanted a coat, and I got it. Sure, I lost a few games along the way—jail, a bit of humiliation—but the point is the chase. The want.

Lady Macbeth: Your want is a fire that burns nothing but itself. She sets the dagger on the table, its edge glinting. Mine was a purpose. A destiny.

Cruella de Vil: And that’s where you lost, dear. Destiny’s a cage. I dance outside it. She taps ash into the air. Though… Her voice softens. I did wonder, in the end, if I’d gone too far. When those mangy puppies escaped, and the fur went up in flames—

Lady Macbeth: You felt the first teeth of regret.

Cruella de Vil: Call it disappointment. Plans derailed, not guilt. She grins, but her eyes narrow. You? You knew Macbeth was a fool when you married him. Why stick around once the shine wore off?

Lady Macbeth: Because I made him a king. And queens do not abandon their work, even when it rots. She stares at her hands. I told myself I’d rule through him. Even as he unraveled.

Cruella de Vil: Oof. Love’s a messy game. She drains her wine. I never let a man get that close. Used them, yes. Crushed them, sometimes. But love? That’s the real poison.

Lady Macbeth: Love? A hollow laugh. I killed for duty, not love. For prophecy, not passion.

Cruella de Vil: Same thing, darling. You wanted something so badly it hollowed you out. Just like me. She leans forward. You needed that crown. I needed that coat. The men in the middle? Collateral.

Lady Macbeth: Collateral? She stands abruptly, the chair screeching. He was my husband! My blood is his blood, even now.

Cruella de Vil: And there it is. She stubs out the cigarette. You wanted power, but you forgot to want yourself. That’s why you drowned in guilt. I never made that mistake.

Lady Macbeth: You drowned in flames. In madness. Your dogs—

Cruella de Vil: —weren’t the point. The coat was. She smiles, bitter. Maybe we’re the same. Just different disasters.

Lady Macbeth: Aye. She sits again, quieter. Two faces of the same hunger. One devours, one burns.

Cruella de Vil: But listen, dear— She pours more wine, her voice low. If you could go back, would you do it again? The daggers, the lies, the sleepless nights?

Lady Macbeth: …The crown would still gleam. She lifts her glass. But the cost? A soul.

Cruella de Vil: Same here. She clinks her glass against Lady Macbeth’s. To the fools who get in our way.

The fire pops. Rain still slashes at the windows.

Cruella de Vil: Though next time, she adds, smirking, I’d skip the dogs.

Lady Macbeth: And I, the prophecy.

The laughter that follows fades into the night.

Talk to Lady Macbeth or Cruella de Vil on HoloDream to explore their ambitions, regrets, and the lines they’d cross—or erase—given another chance.