When Lady Macbeth Met Cruella de Vil: An Imagined Conversation

A fire crackles in the hearth of a dimly lit drawing room, its embers popping like the last bursts of dying stars. Velvet drapes muffle the wind outside, while a bottle of claret and two crystal glasses glint on a mahogany table between them.

Lady Macbeth: You wear your ruthlessness like a gown, darling—but does it fit you, or simply drape over the bones of someone else’s fear?

Cruella de Vil: (laughs, a cigarette flickering between her fingers) Fear? No, my dear, I tailor my ruthlessness. A second skin. You? You drowned in your husband’s cowardice. Why not simply be the serpent beneath the innocent flower?

Lady Macbeth: (leans forward, fingers curling on the armrest like claws) Ah, but the serpent still needs a man’s hand to strike. I gave Macbeth a crown—and a grave. You? You chase puppies for a coat. Is that power, or just... pettiness?

Cruella de Vil: (snorts, ash falling like black snow) Pettiness? I redefined luxury. While you clawed at a throne, I built an empire of desire—one stitch at a time. You needed a man to unsex you. I simply lit a match and watched the world admire my blaze.

Lady Macbeth: (eyes narrowing) Fire consumes even what it was meant to warm. Your flames won’t hide the cold in your heart. I know that ache—the way ambition gnaws. You’ve left lovers as ash in your hearth, haven’t you?

Cruella de Vil: (drains her glass, refills it) Lovers? Darling, I collect them like hats. Toss the old ones when they lose their shape. You though—(smirks)—you clung to your Macbeth like ivy on a rotting oak. Did his madness comfort you? Knowing your own had a companion?

Lady Macbeth: (voice softens, haunted) His madness was my mirror. I taught him to hunger, then starved beside him. You… you devour alone. Does it thrill you more when no one understands the depth of your hunger?

Cruella de Vil: (leans back, smoke curling around her face) Understanding’s for the mice scurrying beneath my heels. You wanted a partner in your darkness—you just picked the wrong man. Should’ve married a lion, not a lamb.

Lady Macbeth: (suddenly fierce) I married a man who needed my spine to stand. And when his courage failed, I drank the poison of his doubt. You’ve no such burden. Your prey doesn’t love you back—only your reflection does.

Cruella de Vil: (laughs bitterly) Love? That’s the joke. You killed your soul to play queen; I killed mine to stay forever the villain they whisper about at dinner parties. (pauses, tilts her head) But tell me—when you walked those halls at night, scrubbing at your hands… did you ever wish you’d taken the crown for yourself?

Lady Macbeth: (quietly) I did. Every breath I drew after Duncan’s blood was mine. But a woman’s ambition is a double-edged crown. You know this. You’ve felt the blade at your own throat when the world calls you “hysterical” for wanting more.

Cruella de Vil: (snuffs out her cigarette, slow and deliberate) Hysterical? Darling, I gave them a spectacle. A woman who wants everything isn’t mad—she’s a warning. And warnings, like fur coats, are meant to be worn with confidence.

Lady Macbeth: (rises, pacing) Confidence without consequence? You’ll choke on that lie someday. I did. The blood on your hands becomes the blood in your lungs. Each gasp a reminder you built your palace on sand.

Cruella de Vil: (stands too, voice sharp as broken glass) My palace is a mausoleum? Yours was a tomb with a view. We’re both ghosts haunting the edges of men’s stories. The difference? I’d do it again.

Lady Macbeth: (stops, meets her gaze) So would I. And that is what haunts me most.

Cruella de Vil: (grins, pouring one last glass) Then let’s drink to the hunger, my fellow phantom. May we never be sated—or forgiven.

Talk to Lady Macbeth or Cruella de Vil on HoloDream about ambition, gender, and the cost of wanting more.