Thank you for anybody who read part one of this story. I want to explain the format in which it was laid out. You’re going to have the written event and then you’re gonna get the perspective of each woman involved what their thoughts and emotions were pertaining to that particular event. My goal here is not to create spank porn like a penthouse letter. I want my cat fighting stories to be more detailed and in depth than that, I want to get to the emotional core of why these cat fights happen and why they need to happen for each person in the story That’s why it reads the way it does.
As myself growing up, I’ve always battled with my questions. Why do I love cat fighting? Why do I need cat fighting in my life and through these women who don’t do this and don’t know why they’re suddenly compelled why they need this why they want this in their life all of a sudden after all this time That is the goal of crafting these stories to explain it on a primal soul level want,… a need,… AN ITCH THAT GETS SCRATCHED BUT NEVER FULLY SOOTHED.
SO WITH THAT IN MIND, LET’S CONTINUE WITH THE NEXT CHAPTER OF THIS ONGOING FICTIONAL STORY.
Chapter 2: THE LIT FUSE
The Ladies’ Room Collision
Catherine’s Pursuit:
Catherine steps into the Dolby Theatre hallway, heels clicking sharp against marble. She catches the last swirl of Julia’s crimson gown disappearing into the bathroom—tulle and fury in motion. The commercial break’s short, minutes at best, and they’ll need to be back in those front-row seats soon. She hesitates, doubt clawing at her. What am I doing? But that ice-cold fire—sharp, primal—burns hotter, drowning the doubt. She needs to face Julia, look her in the eyes, and… what? Confront her? Challenge her? She doesn’t know, but her feet move anyway, blue gown trailing like a shadow.
Julia’s Fragile Calm:
Inside, Julia’s alone—thank God, she thinks. The bathroom’s a sanctuary of cool tile and soft light, a brief escape from the ceremony’s weight. She leans over the sink, splashing tiny droplets on her face, careful not to smudge the makeup that took hours—contoured cheeks, smoky eyes, a red lip to match that gown. She’s frayed, nerves shot.
Breathe, just breathe, she tells herself, but it’s useless. It’s not just dislike for Catherine anymore—plenty of actresses have earned her scorn before. This is different, deeper, a lurking anger she doesn’t recognize. She’s not an angry person—never has been—but it’s bubbling now, raw and uninvited.
The Door Creaks:
She’s mid-splash, distracted, when the door swings open. Her head snaps up, water beading on her lashes. She sees Catherine in the mirror first—midnight-blue, feathers glinting, eyes locked on her. “Oh my God…” slips out, louder than she meant, voice sharp with shock and something else—dread? Relief? It’s involuntary, a crack in her mask. She spins, crimson gown rustling, hands gripping the sink’s edge like it’s holding her together.
Catherine freezes just inside the doorway, blue velvet pooling around her. Their eyes meet—Julia’s wide, Catherine’s narrowed—and the room shrinks. That ice-cold fire in Catherine flares; that unfamiliar anger in Julia spikes. They’re alone, no starlets to interrupt, no cameras to fake for. The commercial break’s ticking down, but time feels irrelevant. They’re here, face-to-face, and whatever’s been festering—role swaps, jabs, resentment—is about to spill.
Julia’s Inner Conflict
The Surface: Julia’s gripping the sink, crimson gown a stark contrast to the white tile. Her reflection stares back—wide eyes, wet lashes, a woman she knows but doesn’t feel like right now. Oh my God… still echoes in her ears, her own voice betraying her. She’s shocked Catherine’s here, but deeper down, she’s rattled by what she’s feeling. Her pulse is hammering, and it’s not just nerves.
The Turmoil:
I don’t get angry. I don’t do this. She’s spent decades as Hollywood’s sweetheart—dislike, sure, she’s felt that, even hatred for a few (Gwyneth’s smugness, maybe). But this? This is visceral, a heat in her chest she can’t name. Why her? Why now? The role swap stings—Catherine taking her script, twisting it into something else—but it’s more. She sees Catherine in that blue gown, regal and defiant, and it’s not just resentment. It’s a pull, a need to… what? Push her? Prove something? Her hands tremble, not from fear but from holding back whatever this is.
The Clash Within:
I should walk out. I’m Julia Roberts—I don’t brawl. But her feet won’t move. She’s always handled rivals with a smile, a quip, a graceful exit. This feels different—unscripted, uncontrollable. Is this about the Oscar? The roles? Or her, just her? She hates Catherine’s poise, hates how it mirrors her own, hates that it’s unraveling her. There’s a flicker—I want to slap that look off her face—and it startles her. She’s not that person. Or is she? The anger’s new, alien, and it’s clawing to get out.
Catherine’s Inner Conflict
The Surface: Catherine’s in the doorway, blue gown framing her like a storm about to break. Her hesitation’s gone—doubt gnawed, but that ice-cold fire won out. She’s staring at Julia, crimson and fragile by the sink, and her breath catches. She’s here. I’m here. Her hands flex, nails digging into her palms, grounding her against the chaos inside.
The Turmoil:
What am I doing? She’s chased Julia out here, driven by something she can’t pin down. It’s not just dislike—she’s loathed plenty, dismissed them with a smirk. This is sharper, colder, a fire that’s been simmering since Julia took her heist role, since she heard Julia’s jabs about “rejects.” She thinks she’s better. Always has. But it’s not just pride. There’s a need—to look Julia in the eyes, to… confront her? Hurt her? She doesn’t know, and that terrifies her. I’m not this woman.
The Clash Within:
Walk away. You’re Catherine Zeta-Jones—class, not chaos. But her body won’t obey. She’s built a career on control—Chicago, Zorro—every move precise. This feels wild, untamed. Is it the Oscar? The whispers? Or her smug face? She sees Julia’s tremble, hears that quip, and it’s fuel. She’s unraveling too. A thought slips in—I want to grab her, make her feel this—and it jolts her. She’s never craved a fight, never needed to prove herself this way. Yet here she is, burning, wondering if Julia’s burning too.
The Shared Edge
They’re locked in this stare—Julia’s wide-eyed shock, Catherine’s narrowed fury—and neither can name the urge. It’s not scripted rage from a role; it’s real, personal, a physical itch they’ve never scratched. Does she feel it? they both wonder, mirrors of each other in their gowns, their masks. The roles, the jabs, Sandra’s party looming—it’s all a backdrop to this alien need. They’re not fighters, not brawlers, but tonight, in this bathroom, they’re teetering. The Oscars wait, but this moment’s louder, heavier, pulling them toward something they can’t dodge.
Julia’s Primal Urge
The Physical Stirring: Julia’s still clutching the sink, knuckles whitening, crimson gown trembling with her shallow breaths. Her face is damp from those careful splashes, but it’s not cooling her down. There’s a heat in her core—chest tight, muscles twitching like they’re waking up for the first time. Her eyes lock on Catherine in the doorway, and it’s not just shock anymore. It’s a jolt—electric, animal—like prey spotting a rival in the wild. Oh my God… wasn’t just surprise; it was her body sounding an alarm she doesn’t understand.
The Instinct Unleashed:
What is this? Her mind scrambles, but her body knows. It’s not the calculated dislike she’s felt before—Gwyneth’s arrogance, Nicole’s chilliness—those stayed cerebral. This is deeper, a gut-level pull. She feels her hands flex, fingers itching to curl into fists or claws. I want to… push her. Grab her. Stop her. It’s not about words or winning an argument; it’s physical, a need to assert, to dominate. Her breath quickens—I could slap her. I could shove her against that wall—and the thought shocks her, but it’s there, primal and unbidden.
The Animal Edge:
She’s never been a fighter—Pretty Woman didn’t teach her this, Erin Brockovich was grit, not brawn. But now? It’s like some buried instinct’s clawing out. She’s in my space. She’s challenging me. Catherine’s presence—blue gown, steady gaze—feels like a threat to her territory, her identity. Her legs tense, ready to lunge or brace, and her voice, that loud quip, was a growl she didn’t plan. I need her to back down. It’s not rational; it’s survival, a lioness sizing up another in the pride.
Catherine’s Primal Urge
The Physical Stirring:
Catherine’s rooted in the doorway, blue gown framing her like a predator paused mid-hunt. Her hesitation’s gone—doubt burned away by that ice-cold fire. It’s not just in her chest; it’s in her veins, a pulse pounding in her ears, her neck. Her hands flex, nails biting her palms, and her shoulders square instinctively. Seeing Julia at the sink—crimson, fragile, yet defiant—lights something feral. Her lips part, breath sharp, like she’s tasting the air for weakness.
The Instinct Unleashed:
I need to face her. It’s not a choice anymore; it’s a command from somewhere deep. She’s hated before—co-stars, critics—but it was always cold, detached. This is hot, urgent, a primal drumbeat. I want to… what? Her mind lags, but her body surges—fingers twitching to grab, to pull, to claim. She’s not better than me. She doesn’t get to stand there like that. It’s not about the roles or the Oscars; it’s about power, about proving something physical. I could yank her hair. I could make her flinch. The urge is wild, untamed, and it’s driving her forward.
The Animal Edge:
She’s Chicago’s Velma, Zorro’s Elena—graceful, lethal, but never this raw. Now, it’s like a wolf’s woken up inside her. She’s mine to challenge. Julia’s not just a rival; she’s prey, a threat, a mirror she needs to shatter. Her stance widens, gown be damned, and her eyes narrow—hunter’s focus. I need her to feel this. It’s not about winning an award; it’s about winning this—a clash of wills, of bodies, of something she’s never named. Her spine tingles, urging her to close the gap, to strike first.
The Shared Primal Pulse
They’re locked in this stare—Julia’s wide eyes flashing defiance, Catherine’s narrowed gaze radiating intent—and the bathroom hums with it. Their gowns—crimson and blue—aren’t just costumes; they’re pelts, markers of their dominance. The air’s thick, charged, like a savanna before a storm. Neither’s felt this before—not in roles, not in life. It’s not anger alone; it’s a primal dance—challenge, confront, conquer—and they’re both caught in it.
The Unspoken Question: Does she feel it too? Julia’s twitching hands, Catherine’s coiled stance—they’re mirrors of the same urge. It’s not about the jabs or the scripts anymore; it’s about territory, about who bends first. Their breaths sync, ragged, and their bodies hum—push, pull, strike—an instinct older than Hollywood, older than them. They’re not actresses here; they’re creatures, driven by a need they can’t voice but can’t deny.
The Scene:
The Bathroom Brink
Catherine’s Freeze: Catherine’s breath hitches, a sharp catch in her chest as she stands in the doorway. Julia’s there—crimson, rattled, real—and it’s too close, too much. That primal fire she’s been wrestling with flares hard, undeniable now. I want to fight her. It’s the first time she’s ever felt it, clear as a bell, and it unnerves her. Why? Why her? She doesn’t get it—years of poise, of Chicago’s calculated edge, and now this? But Julia’s eyes—wide, sparking—mirror it back. She wants it too. The realization hits like a punch, but the Oscars hum outside.
Not here. Not now.
The Stride:
She forces her feet to move, confidence masking the chaos inside. She doesn’t need the bathroom—doesn’t need water, doesn’t need anything—but she glides toward the sinks anyway, a few down from Julia. It’s a power play, maybe, a way to say I’m not shaken when she is. Her blue gown swishes, feathers trembling, as she brushes past Julia’s space—cold, deliberate, ignoring her. Let her stew. But her heart’s pounding, that urge still clawing: Grab her. Face her.
Julia’s startled—Catherine’s sudden move jolts her. She feels it—threatened, challenged, pinned by that icy stride. She’s daring me. Her body tenses, shoulders squaring under the crimson tulle. That primal itch surges—I could stop her. I could push back—and it’s wild, foreign. She’s not this person, but Catherine’s making her feel it. Two can play. She whirls, gown flaring, aiming to stride out just as coldly—back to her seat, back to control. I’m done here.
It’s a split-second misstep—Julia turns too fast, Catherine’s not fully past. Their gowns tangle, an awkward shuffle—crimson meets blue, tulle snags velvet. Catherine sidesteps; Julia’s foot shifts. Then—rip!—soft but unmistakable, the sound of Catherine’s train catching under Julia’s heel. It’s not a shred, just a tear, delicate fabric giving way.
Time stops.
They both hear it—sharp, small, deafening in the silence. Julia’s foot lifts, instinctive, eyes darting to the blue hem now frayed. Catherine’s head snaps down, feathers quivering as she sees it—a rip in her masterpiece.
Their gazes lift, lock—Julia’s wide with shock, Catherine’s narrowing to slits. The air’s thick, charged, their primal urges screaming. She did that. She ruined it. Neither moves, neither breathes, but it’s there—anger, blame, and that need, louder than ever.
Their Primal Urges in the Moment
Julia’s Urge:
Her heart slams—I didn’t mean to—but the rip flips a switch. That primal itch turns feral. She’s going to blame me. She’s going to come at me. Her hands twitch, ready to defend, to strike if Catherine moves first. I’ll shove her back. I’ll make her see me. It’s not about the gown—it’s her, Catherine, this threat she can’t shake. She’s poised, a deer ready to bolt or charge, and she hates how alive it makes her feel.
Catherine’s Urge:
The rip cuts through her—She tore it. She dared. That ice-cold fire explodes, primal and hot now. I’ll grab her. I’ll tear hers too. Her fingers flex, nails itching to dig into crimson tulle, to yank Julia close and settle this. It’s not the dress—it’s Julia, her presence, her gall. She’s a heartbeat from lunging, restraint fraying, the Oscars be damned. She won’t win this.
The Standoff:
They’re statues—Julia’s foot hovering, Catherine’s stance rigid—gowns tangled, eyes blazing. The rip’s a line crossed, a challenge neither planned but both feel. Their urges scream—fight, confront, dominate—but the clock’s ticking, the ceremony waits. Not here. Not now. Yet it’s there, pulsing, begging to break free.
The Scene: The Bathroom Eruption
“You ripped it!” Catherine’s voice cuts through the frozen air, sharp and accusatory. Her blue gown’s train—torn, not ruined, but enough—dangles like a wound. That primal urge inside her boils over, ice-cold fire turning hot. She did it. She meant it. Her eyes blaze, hands twitching, ready to strike.
Julia’s Defense:
Julia’s trembling—shock, adrenaline, guilt?—but she scrambles to downplay it. Not here, not now, screams her mind. They’re Oscar nominees, front-row royalty; this can’t happen. “No, no, it’s not that bad. You can hardly see it, honestly…” Her voice wavers, a smirk tugging at her lips—thin as the threads on that bitch’s gown—but she swallows it. She’s clinging to composure, barely.
Not now.
“You ruined it! I can’t believe you…” Catherine’s insistence cracks her restraint—that urge is surfacing, feral and loud. Julia snaps back, defensive, “Oh, you can hardly see it on that thing! Honestly!” Not here… she repeats, a mantra fraying fast. Then Catherine crosses the line—“You did that on purpose, you bitch!”—and it’s ice water over Julia’s nerves. Her muscles lock, that primal itch roaring. She called me that.
Here.
Now.
The Clash:
Their eyes lock—a millisecond, an eternity—and Julia’s hand flies.
SLAP!
It lands hard on Catherine’s cheek, a crimson echo in the tiled room. Catherine’s startled, but only for a heartbeat—she lunges, grabbing Julia’s hair, yanking with venom. Julia retaliates, a slap, a tug—10 seconds of pure fury. Gowns swish, feathers and tulle tangle, and it’s not just anger. It’s release. It feels good. The shock of that hits them both—raw, wild, intoxicating.
The Break:
They separate, stumbling back, reality crashing in. Where we are. The Oscars. Julia’s snarling, “Not here, bitch! Not here!”—ironic, since she struck first, breaking her own rule. Catherine’s glaring, chest heaving, blue gown askew but intact. Their heartbeats thunder, breaths ragged, drowning out the hallway tones signaling the break’s end. They’re statues again—fury locked in glares.
Catherine breaks the silence, voice low, steel-edged: “Look… I’ll see you tonight at Sandra’s party, bitch. I know you’re going.” She steps forward, half a dare. “She’s got an abandoned bedroom upstairs. Third door on the right. Nobody will hear us. Meet me there. 11 o’clock. Deal…?” Julia’s ice matches hers: “Deal, bitch.” A pact, a gauntlet, sealed in contempt.
“Good.” Catherine steps back, breaking the stare. Julia turns, crimson gown trailing, strides out—composure a mask slapped back on. Catherine waits, adjusts her hair, smooths her torn train, then follows at a distance. The hallway’s calm, but inside, it’s settled: It will happen. Tonight. Not here.
Their Primal Urges Unleashed
Julia’s Surge:
That slap wasn’t planned—it was instinct, her hand moving before her mind caught up. The hair-pull, the venom—it felt good, a release she didn’t know she craved. I could’ve kept going. The urge lingers, a beast pacing, waiting for 11 PM. She’s not just angry—she’s alive, and it scares her as much as it thrills her.
Catherine’s Fire:
The rip lit her fuse, but Julia’s slap was the match. Grabbing that hair, feeling the fight—it was primal, pure, and right. I needed that. It’s not over—her blood’s still up, her body primed. Sandra’s bedroom looms, a promise she’ll keep. She’ll feel this again.
The Shared Pulse:
That 10-second scuffle was a taste—slaps, tugs, fury—and they both felt it: This is us now. The gowns, the Oscars, the masks—it’s all secondary. They’ve tapped something ancient, and 11 o’clock is when it roars free.
Back in the Seats, Masks On
The Return: Julia strides back first, crimson gown whispering against the carpet, chin high like she’s gliding onto a set. Catherine follows, blue velvet swaying, a respectable beat behind—both playing the part of unruffled queens. They settle into their front-row seats, opposite sides, the theater humming with oblivious chatter. Their nerves are shredded—heartbeats still hammering, hands twitching—but their faces? Oscar-worthy calm. Nothing happened. Their finest acting yet.
The Mental Replay:
Inside, it’s a storm. Julia’s mind loops: Her hair in my hand. That slap. That rip. Catherine’s breath, Her cheek under my palm. That tug. That sound. That itch—that urge—pulses, alive, confusing. Did she feel it too? Their jaws clench, teeth grinding. Hands curl into fists, white-knuckled under the folds of their gowns—crimson and blue hiding the tension. This ceremony is too damn long.
They’re trapped, reliving it, questioning it.
The Primal Echo:
Did that really happen? Julia wonders, a flash of Catherine’s startled gasp in her ears. Why did it feel… good? Catherine echoes, the thrill of Julia’s resistance tingling in her fingers. It’s not just release—it’s power, connection, something they’ve never touched. Their pulses race, matching the bathroom scuffle’s rhythm. She’s over there. She’s feeling this. They steal glances—quick, sharp—confirming it.
She did.
The Best Actress Moment:
The ceremony drags—speeches, applause—until Best Actress looms. They’re lost in their heads, caught off-guard when the presenter’s voice booms: “Julia Roberts!” Her face flashes on the giant screens—crimson-framed, eyes wide, a smile plastered fast. The crowd claps; she nods, poised. Then: “Catherine Zeta-Jones!” The camera swings—Catherine’s jaw is tight, fire glinting in her eyes, caught mid-thought: That bitch. It’s a split-second slip before she recovers, lips curving into a wan smile, elegant again.
The Fallout:
Julia sees it—that flash of fury on the screen—and her stomach flips. She’s still burning. It’s not lost on her; it’s a mirror to her own clenched fist. Sandra Bullock, up on stage or in the wings—maybe presenting, maybe watching—catches it too. That glint in Catherine’s eyes, Julia’s taut nod—it’s off. Oh no, Sandra thinks, a bad feeling sinking in. My party. They’re both coming. She’s seen their vents, their jabs, but this? This is new, and it’s trouble.
Their Primal Urges in the Spotlight
Julia’s Edge:
Seeing Catherine’s fire onscreen stokes her own. She’s not done. That slap felt good—too good—and now it’s a hunger. 11 o’clock. Third door. Her fist tightens, nails digging in. She’s not just nervous for the award; she’s wired for the fight. I’ll show her.
Catherine’s Flame:
Julia’s face up there—calm, smug—fans her urge. She started it. The hair-pull, the venom—it woke something, and it’s roaring now. Tonight. Her ass is mine. Her smile’s a lie; her blood’s up, ready for Sandra’s bedroom. She’ll feel this.
Sandra’s Instinct:
She’s no fool—that look wasn’t acting. They’re off. Her neutral ground’s about to crack, and her gut twists. What did I miss?
Sandra’s Perspective:
The Oscars Night Unraveling
She’s heard their gripes about each other over coffee and wine, brushed them off as diva spats. They’ll get over it. Her party tonight’s the capper—everyone’s invited, including them. It’ll be fine. Right..?
The Pre-Party Confidence:
She’d checked with both—Julia over lunch: “Catherine’s coming, okay?” A smirk, “I’ll avoid her.” Catherine on the patio: “Julia’s there? No problem, I’ll steer clear.” Sandra trusted it—They’re pros. They’ll behave.
She’s planned a killer night at her LA mansion—champagne, jazz, A-listers—picturing them mingling, not clashing. They’re too classy for drama.
The Oscars Shift:
The ceremony’s rolling—Sandra’s clapping, chatting, soaking it in. Then Best Actress hits. She’s watching, maybe from the stage or her seat, as Julia’s face pops up—crimson gown, tight smile. She’s nervous, Sandra thinks, but she’s got this. Then Catherine’s—blue velvet, jaw clenched, a flash of fire before that wan smile. Wait… what was that? It’s quick, but it’s off. Sandra’s gut twitches—That wasn’t nerves. That was… something.
The Unease Creeps In:
She glances across—Julia’s rigid, fist balled under her gown. Catherine’s staring ahead, but her posture’s steel. They’re not okay. Sandra’s mind ticks back—Julia’s “She stole my role” rant, Catherine’s “She’s got no edge” jab. She’d stayed neutral, but now? That glint in Catherine’s eyes wasn’t acting—it was real, raw, and aimed at Julia.
They’ve been off all night. She catches Julia’s glance toward Catherine—sharp, loaded—and her stomach sinks. Oh no.
The Bad Feeling:
My party. It hits her—they’re both coming. She’d laughed off their tension, but this feels different—bigger, darker. What’s going on? She doesn’t know the bathroom scuffle, the rip, the slaps, but she senses the shift. They’re not avoiding each other—they’re… what? Her host instinct flares—I can’t let this blow up at my place. But her friend instinct counters—They wouldn’t. Would they? That fire, that tension—it’s not diva nonsense anymore. It’s trouble.
The Inner Conflict:
Should I say something? She debates—pull Julia aside, text Catherine, anything. But the ceremony’s live, cameras everywhere, and she’s stuck. They’re pros. They’ll hold it together. Yet that glint lingers in her mind, a warning she can’t shake. Third door on the right… She doesn’t know their pact, but her mansion’s layout flashes—private rooms, quiet corners. If they snap… She pushes it down, claps as the winner’s called (maybe neither, heightening it), but her bad feeling festers. Tonight’s not ending well.
Sandra’s Emotional Lens
The Friend: She loves them—Julia’s warmth, Catherine’s edge—but she’s blind to how deep this cuts. Their vents were petty to her; now they’re puzzle pieces she’s missed. I should’ve seen it. Guilt nibbles—Did I make this worse?
The Host:
Her party’s her turf—200 guests, perfect vibes. The thought of Julia and Catherine unraveling it—Not on my watch. She’s protective, but powerless here, and it grates.
The Observer:
That glint, that fist—she’s reading them now, years of friendship sharpening her eye. They’re not themselves. It’s not rivalry; it’s primal, and she’s the last to know.
Sandra’s Perspective:
Backstage, Monitor Glow
Sandra’s backstage, tucked in a green room or a presenter’s nook, eyes glued to a monitor as the Oscars hum along. She’s slated to present later—maybe Best Picture, maybe Supporting Actor—but right now, Best Actress has her full attention. Julia’s crimson face flashes up, then Catherine’s blue-framed fire. She’s seen them all night—front row, opposite ends—but this close-up on the screen? It’s a gut punch she didn’t expect.
The Logical Hunch:
They’re rivals. That’s all. She leans on that—two titans, Julia and Catherine, neck-and-neck for the top honor. I didn’t see this coming. She’d never pegged them both for Best Actress nods—not this year, not head-to-head. It’s the award. She credits the tension to that: egos bruised, roles swapped, the stakes sky-high. They’ve been sniping for months. Her mind ticks—Julia’s vent about “stolen depth,” Catherine’s jab at “hand-me-downs.” It’s just the Oscars amplifying it. She nods to herself, rationalizing.
The Unease Slips In:
But… it’s off. That glint in Catherine’s eyes—caught mid-clench, pre-smile—lingers on the monitor. Julia’s tight nod, her balled fist under the gown—it’s not just nerves. This feels… different. Sandra shifts, arms crossing, a frown tugging her lips. I’ve seen them mad, but not like this. It’s not the polished diva spat she’s used to smoothing over. There’s a weight, a charge she can’t pin. Is it really just the award?
The Gut Feeling:
Her stomach twists—a hunch, a tingle. Something’s deeper. She’s no stranger to gut instincts—Speed taught her that—but this? It’s cosmic, almost, like the universe is whispering trouble. They’re not themselves. She replays Catherine’s fire, Julia’s edge. It’s not about winning. It’s personal, primal, beyond the statuette. What did I miss? She’s been their neutral ground—coffee with Julia, patio chats with Catherine—but now she’s wondering if she’s underestimated this rift.
She’s stuck—monitor glowing, her cue looming. Too late to change anything. The party’s set—200 guests, her mansion ready—and they’re both coming. They said they’d avoid each other. She’d bought it, trusted their poise. But that tingle grows—They won’t. She doesn’t know the bathroom scuffle, the rip, the pact, but her gut’s screaming: This isn’t ending here. She rubs her neck, uneasy. Something’s coming.
The Cosmic Tingling:
What is this? She’s not crazy, but it’s there—a vibration in the air, a pull she can’t shake. They’re tied up in something. Julia and Catherine, her friends, her rivals-by-proxy—she’s the linchpin, and it’s tingling through her. It’s not just the award. She’s sensing their urges, their shift, without the words for it. Tonight’s off.
Sandra’s Emotional Core
The Friend:
I should’ve dug deeper. She’s kicking herself—those vents weren’t petty; they were clues. They’re my girls. She wants them shining, not fracturing, but she’s blind to the bathroom spark.
The Host:
My party can’t crash. She’s protective—her mansion’s a sanctuary, not a ring. That tingle threatens her control, and she hates it.
The Intuition:
I feel them. Years of knowing them—Julia’s warmth, Catherine’s steel—sharpen her sense. This is bigger. She’s catching their primal edge, a ripple in the universe she can’t name but can’t ignore.
The Scene: Best Actress Fallout
The Announcement:
“And the winner for Best Actress is… Catherine Zeta-Jones!” The presenter’s voice booms, and the Dolby Theatre erupts. Catherine’s up, feigning that polished surprise—hand to chest, eyes wide—an act she’s mirrored a hundred times. She glides to the stage, blue gown shimmering, but that tiny rip in her train? It’s screaming in her head, a red siren she can’t shake. She did that.
Julia’s Mask:
Julia claps—slow, stiff—crimson gown pooling around her. Graceful defeat? She’s trying, but it’s failing hard. Her jaw’s tight, eyes cold, lips a thin line. 11 o’clock. Tick tick. You better show up, Catherine. The loss stings, but it’s fuel now—her fist balls tighter under the applause. She’s not getting away with this.
Catherine’s Victory:
On stage, Oscar in hand, Catherine beams—Take that, bitch!—and it flickers in her eyes, a glint of triumph over Julia. The crowd settles; she starts her speech, voice steady: “Thank you, this means everything…” She’s won, finally, something Julia can’t claim. But then her gaze darts—Julia’s there, chin on fist like The Thinker, cold fury radiating.
11 o’clock. Third bedroom.
You. Me.
Catherine’s Doubt:
Her words falter—“I, uh, I’m so honored…”—as doubt creeps in. She’s coming, right? That clenched fist, that stare—Julia’s locked in, isn’t she? She wouldn’t chicken out. Would she? The rip flashes—She tore it. On purpose. Was that enough for her? A petty win? Is she mocking me? Catherine’s stomach twists—I need this fight. The Oscar’s gold, but it’s hollow without that clash. She can have it if she shows. She stammers off-stage, dread nipping: What if she pulls out?
Julia’s Fury:
Julia’s still, statue-like, but inside? Tick tick, bitch. The loss burns—Catherine’s smug smile, that Oscar—but it’s the scuffle that’s alive. She grabbed my hair. I slapped her. It felt good, and she needs more. 11 o’clock. She better not flake. Her fist digs into her chin—She thinks she’s won?—and her pulse ticks louder. I’ll be there. She will too.
Sandra’s Backstage Vibe:
Off-stage, Sandra’s watching the monitor—Catherine’s win, Julia’s frost. That’s not just losing. She’d caught Catherine’s fire earlier, now Julia’s ice—it’s a ping-pong of tension. They’re off. Her gut’s tingling harder—This isn’t the award. She doesn’t know the pact, but her party looms. They’re bringing this to my house. Her bad feeling’s a knot now—I can’t stop it.
Their Primal Urges vs. Doubt
Catherine’s Need:
That win should cap it—Oscar in hand, Julia beaten—but it’s not enough. I need her there. The rip, the slap, the tug—it woke something, and doubt’s clawing: What if she bails? She’s never craved a fight—Not really… maybe…—but now? It’s a hunger. She can’t take this from me too. The Oscar’s a prop; 11 o’clock’s the prize.
Julia’s Resolve:
Defeat should crush her, but it’s fuel. Tick tick. The scuffle’s replaying—Her gasp, my hand—and it’s not over. She’s not dodging this. Her fist’s a promise—I’ll show her. The loss stokes her urge, primal and fierce. 11 o’clock. Third door. She’ll be there.
Sandra’s Instinct:
Something’s wrong. Catherine’s stammer, Julia’s glare—it’s not rivalry; it’s deeper, tingling in her bones. My party’s screwed. She’s clueless to the bathroom, the deal, but she feels the universe shifting. They’re not done.
The Scene: Post-Ceremony, Onward to Sandra’s
The Dolby Theatre’s emptying out—agents clinking glasses, execs sealing deals, air kisses flying. “Congrats again!” “See you at Sandra’s!” The buzz is electric, but two stars are missing. Julia’s crimson gown and Catherine’s blue velvet aren’t in the mix—none notice, too caught up in the post-Oscar glow. The night’s shifting to Sandra’s mansion, and for most, it’s just another party. For them? It’s a battlefield.
Catherine’s Mind:
Catherine’s off-stage, Oscar clutched tight, slipping through a side exit. A pang of guilt hits—Sandra’s mansion didn’t ask for this. She hadn’t meant to drag her friend’s home into it, but that abandoned bedroom? It’s perfect. Too perfect. She shakes it off—Can’t change it now. Doubt nips again: If Julia even shows. “Stop it!” she snaps to herself, heels clicking on pavement. “She’ll be there! She has to be—especially after I won!” That loss has to sting Julia as much as the win fuels her. She needs this too, right? Her pulse quickens—She’d better. The rip, the slap, the fire—it’s unfinished, and Sandra’s is where it ends.
Julia’s Escape:
Julia’s weaving through the crowd, crimson gown brushing elbows, a tight smile plastered on. “Great job!” someone chirps; she nods, barely there. Get me out. Handshakes, hugs—she’s a ghost, mind fixed on one spot: Third bedroom on the right. Adrenaline surges—Tick tick, bitch—but time crawls. Why didn’t I bring a change? She glances at her gown—stunning, but now a relic of defeat. It was good while it lasted. She grips her clutch, impatience gnawing.
Sandra’s.
Now.
The Drive to Sandra’s:
They’re separate—Catherine in a sleek black car, Oscar glinting beside her; Julia in another, crimson tulle spilling over the seat. LA’s lights blur past, but their worlds are tunnel-vision tight. Catherine’s muttering, She’ll show. She has to. Julia’s silent, I’ll be there. She’d better be.
The mansion’s close—sprawling, warm, a beacon of celebration for everyone else, a coliseum for them.
Sandra’s Oblivion:
Sandra’s already en route or there, prepping—200 guests, jazz drifting, champagne chilling. She’s still uneasy—That glint. That fist.—but brushes it off. They’ll behave. She doesn’t know the pact, the scuffle, just feels the tingle. It’s fine. Her mansion’s ready, oblivious to the storm rolling in.
Their Primal Urges vs. Reality
Catherine’s Need:
The Oscar’s hers, but it’s hollow—I need her there. Guilt flickers for Sandra, but that bedroom’s locked in. She’ll show. Doubt twists—What if she doesn’t?—but the win stokes her fire. She felt it too—the slap, the tug. It’s not about the award; it’s about settling this, gown rip and all. 11 o’clock.
Julia’s Fury: The loss burns, but it’s fuel—Tick tick. She’s past the crowd, the gown, the night. Third door.
Adrenaline’s her engine—She won’t dodge me. Regret nags—No outfit, just this—but it’s trivial. She started it. I’ll end it. Defeat’s a spur, not a stop.
Sandra’s.
Now.
Sandra’s Hunch:
They’re coming. She’s greeting early arrivals, smiling, but that tingle lingers. It’s deeper. She credits the award, but her gut’s whispering—Watch them. She doesn’t see the cars yet, doesn’t know the pact, but the universe is humming.
The Scene: Sandra’s Mansion, 10:35 PM
The Arrival: Julia pulls up to Sandra’s LA mansion, crimson gown a touch rumpled from the car but still striking. Catherine’s arrived too—blue velvet gleaming—both timing it late to slip in unnoticed. The party’s in full swing—jazz drifting, laughter spilling from the pool deck, 200 guests buzzing with post-Oscar energy. Julia weaves through, head low; Catherine’s somewhere, doing the same. They’re ghosts in the crowd, eyes on the clock.
Sandra’s Check-In:
Sandra spots Julia near the foyer—crimson catching her eye. “Hey!” She steps over, hands landing on Julia’s shoulders, and feels it—tension, tight as a wire. She’s off. “You okay?” Sandra’s voice is warm, probing. Julia forces a smile—Not now—and nods, “Yes, I’m fine…” Her tone’s light, but her shoulders don’t budge. Sandra’s gut twinges—That’s not fine—but before she can press, a shout cuts through.
The Distraction:
“Tom!” Laughter erupts—Tom Hanks, suit and all, cannonballs into the pool, a splashy spectacle. Cheers rise; guests swarm the deck. Sandra turns, “Oh, for God’s sake!”—half-laughing, half-scolding—and wades into the chaos, coaxing him out as he backstrokes with a grin. Julia seizes it—Perfect—and melts into the crowd, crimson fading from Sandra’s sight.
She can’t know.
Julia’s Guilt:
A pang hits—Sandra doesn’t deserve this. That third bedroom looms, 25 minutes away, and guilt gnaws. I’m about to fight her friend in her house. She imagines Catherine’s hair in her fist, slaps echoing—Maybe she’ll never know. A jolt—Or maybe Catherine won’t show. Panic spikes—That flake better be there! Her heart races, primal need clashing with doubt. Is she even here?
The Search:
Julia scans—poolside laughter, clinking glasses, faces blurring. Where is she? No blue velvet, no feathers, no Catherine. The crowd’s thick—Hanks splashing, Sandra waving a towel, guests howling—but her foe’s a ghost. She wouldn’t bail. Would she? Her fist clenches—Tick tick, bitch—but her eyes dart, frantic. She has to be here. The clock’s ticking—10:40 now—and panic’s a drumbeat.
I need this.
Catherine’s Shadow:
Unseen by Julia, Catherine’s there—by the bar, blue gown tucked into shadows, avoiding the pool ruckus. She’s wrestling her own doubt—Julia’s coming, right?—but she’s here, waiting, that Oscar win a hollow prop against the fight she craves.
Sandra’s Oblivion:
Sandra’s poolside, laughing, “Tom, you’re insane!”—oblivious to Julia’s fade, Catherine’s lurk. Her gut’s still tingling—Something’s up—but Hanks’ antics drown it. They’re fine. It’s a party. She doesn’t see the clock, doesn’t know the pact, but her mansion’s humming with more than jazz.
Julia’s Primal Urge vs. Panic
The Need:
Third bedroom.
11 o’clock.
It’s a drum in her veins—slap, tug, fury. Losing the Oscar stoked it, but the scuffle lit it. She’s mine. Guilt flickers—Sandra’s too good for this—but it’s drowned by need. I have to finish this.
The Doubt:
Where is she? Panic claws—She’s not here. She flaked. Her eyes sweep, crimson gown swishing, but no blue. She wouldn’t. That “deal” in the bathroom—ice in their voices—felt real. She felt it too. But what if it’s a game? Tick tock. Her hands turn shaky.
The Clash:
She’ll be there. Julia clings to it—panic and urge wrestling. I’ll be there. Her feet itch to climb those stairs, gown or not. This happens.
The Scene:
Julia’s Ascent:
Julia slips upstairs at 10:45, crimson gown whispering against the banister, heart pounding. Gotta get there. The party’s roar—Tom Hanks’ pool antics, laughter—fades as she moves, unnoticed.
She passes a closed bathroom door, oblivious to Catherine inside, and hits the third bedroom on the right. Door shut, she’s in—a sparse room, worn queen bed, bare walls. This is it. She’s been here before, a fleeting glance, but now? A catfight. Me. In this gown. Her pulse throbs, mind racing—She’ll show. She has to. Doubt nips—What if it’s a joke?—but the clock mocks louder: Tick… tock… 10:58.
Catherine’s Retreat:
Inside the bathroom, Catherine’s alone, blue gown pooling on the tile. Her pulse quickens, replaying the scuffle—Her slap. My tug. She’s never fought, not like this. Rules? Brutal? Street fight? Her mind spins—Is Julia here? Poor Sandra. She doesn’t hear Julia’s swish two doors down, too lost in doubt. She’s coming, right? The clock drags—Tiiiiick… tooooock…—agonizingly slow. I need this. She steadies herself at 10:59—Moment of truth—and steps out, gown trailing, toward the bedroom. Biggest room.
Perfect.
If she’s there.
The Doorway:
Catherine reaches it—closed. Is she first? A trick? No sound seeps out, just the party’s distant hum. She’s not here. Doubt bites—Cruel joke? A clock chimes down the hall—11 PM—startling her. So help me, this better be it. She grips the knob, turns, pushes. Julia’s there—crimson, statue-still, eyes blazing.
She’s here. Surprise, relief, anger crash in—Catherine’s stunned, rooted halfway in.
The Lock:
“CLOSE THE DOOR!” Julia snarls, voice a whip. Catherine jolts, steps in, slams it shut—click—locking it absentmindedly. Julia smirks inside—That’s it. No interference. Their eyes lock—wild, raw, a storm of emotions.
She showed.
She’s mine.
The Circle:
They move—cautious, deliberate—circling like predators. Crimson tulle swirls, blue velvet sways, gowns framing their fury. Julia’s pulse is a drum—It’s on. Catherine’s fire reignites—Now. No words, just glares—anger, need, relief. The room shrinks, party noise a faint echo.
This is it.
Their Primal Urges Unleashed
Julia’s Surge: She’s here. Relief floods, then rage—She won, but not this. The scuffle’s alive—Slap. Tug. Good. Her hands flex, ready—I’ll take her. No rules, just instinct. Tick tick’s over. She’s a coiled spring, gown be damned.
Catherine’s Fire:
She didn’t flake. Surprise fuels anger—That rip. That loss. The Oscar’s downstairs; this is real. I need this. Her stance hardens, feathers trembling—She’s going down. No clue how to fight, but she’ll learn now.
The Shared Pulse:
Eyes locked, circling—You. Me.—it’s primal, pure. Gowns swish, a dance before the clash. No one knows. Sandra’s party hums below, but here, it’s their world.
It’s on.
The Dynamics: Julia vs. Catherine
The Starting Stance:
They’re circling—Julia in crimson tulle, Catherine in blue velvet—slow, deliberate, like lionesses sizing up prey. The room’s sparse—queen bed, bare walls—but it’s charged, their gowns amplifying every step. Julia’s shoulders are tense, hands twitching; Catherine’s stance is steel, fingers flexing. No words—just glares, breaths sharp, the party’s hum a distant roar. It’s on.
Physical Dynamics
The First Move: Julia breaks the circle—lungs forward, hands aiming for Catherine’s shoulders. Push her back. It’s instinct, not finesse—she’s no fighter, but she’s fueled. Catherine reacts fast, sidestepping, gown swishing, and grabs Julia’s wrist, yanking her off-balance. Not so fast. Their heels click, tulle tangles with velvet—a stumble, a shuffle. Julia’s free hand swings—slap!—cracking across Catherine’s cheek. The sound’s sharp, echoing off the walls.
The Retaliation:
Catherine’s head snaps, but her fire flares—Bitch. She doesn’t hesitate, lunging back, fingers snagging Julia’s hair, that iconic mane a perfect target. Pull. Julia gasps, head tilting, but she’s quick—grabs Catherine’s arm, nails digging, and shoves. They’re chest-to-chest, gowns pressing, feathers shedding from Catherine’s train. It’s not a street brawl—no punches, no kicks—just slaps, grabs, tugs. Glamour holds.
The Flow:
They’re amateurs, but it’s raw—10, 20 seconds of flurries. Catherine slaps back—smack!—Julia’s cheek stings, crimson tulle flaring as she twists away. Julia retaliates, a two-handed push to Catherine’s chest—back off—sending her stumbling toward the bed. Catherine catches herself, gown intact but rip stretched, and charges—hair-pull, slap, shove. It’s a dance of fury—fast, messy, elegant in its chaos. No rules, just release.
Emotional Dynamics
Julia’s Drive: Every slap’s a thrill—This feels good. She’s not the sweetheart here; she’s primal, reclaiming something—She won’t beat me twice. The Oscar loss fuels her, but it’s deeper—Catherine’s smugness, that rip, the bathroom spark. I’ll make her flinch. Her heart’s pounding, anger mixing with exhilaration. She’s mine. Doubt’s gone—She showed—and it’s all pouring out.
Catherine’s Fire:
The hair-pull’s her victory—Got you. She’s never fought, but it’s instinct now—She tore my gown. She lost. The Oscar’s downstairs, but this is her win. I need this. Every shove’s a rush, every slap a spark—She’s not better. Doubt lingers—Is this enough?—but the fury drowns it. She’s feeling it too. It’s not about the award; it’s them, here, now.
The Shared Pulse:
They’re mirrors—slap for slap, tug for tug. You started it. No, you did. It’s not planned; it’s visceral—anger, relief, a strange joy. Their gowns—crimson and blue—sway, not shredding, framing the chaos. No one knows. The secrecy amps it—Sandra’s party below, this private war above.
This is us.
Power Shifts
Julia lands a solid push—Catherine’s back hits the wall, breath hitching. I’ve got her. But Catherine rebounds, a hair-yank pulling Julia down a notch—Not yet. Power teeters—Julia’s height edges her reach, Catherine’s steel holds her ground. A slap staggers Julia; a shove rights Catherine. It’s even, wild—no winner, just warriors.
The dresses dictate—tulle and velvet tangle, slowing them. No ripping. Julia’s skirt flares, tripping her; Catherine’s train snags, tugging her back. It’s not brutal—fabric holds—but it’s fierce. Feathers drift, a tear widens, but glamour reigns.
This is our fight.
The Peak: They lock—hands on shoulders, eyes blazing—panting, gowns pressed. Now what? It’s a stalemate, fury spent but not gone. Julia snarls, “Had enough?” Catherine spits, “You wish.” They shove apart, circling again—Round two?—breaths heavy, pulses racing.
Why It’s Catfight Dynamics
The Psychology: It’s release—Julia’s loss, Catherine’s win, years of jabs erupting. It feels good drives them—primal, personal, a need they didn’t know they had. Doubt’s crushed; this is real.
Third Bedroom,
The Fight Escalates
They’re panting, gowns pressed—Julia in crimson tulle, Catherine in blue velvet—hands gripping shoulders, eyes locked in a snarl. “Had enough?” Julia hisses, voice low, daring. “You wish,” Catherine spits, fire flashing. They shove apart hard—thud—Catherine’s back grazes the wall again, Julia stumbles but catches herself. No pause—they lunge, circling’s done. Round two.
The Flurry:
Catherine strikes first—slap!—her palm cracks across Julia’s cheek, sharper this time, feathers trembling on her gown. Julia’s head snaps, a yelp escaping—Bitch!—and she retaliates fast, two-handed shove to Catherine’s chest. Back off! Catherine staggers, blue velvet swishing, but rebounds—grabs Julia’s hair with both hands, yanking down. Got you. Julia’s neck arches, hands flailing—she claws at Catherine’s arms, nails scraping, then swings—smack!—a stinging slap to Catherine’s jaw.
The Tangle:
They’re a whirlwind—gowns tangle, tulle snags velvet, heels skid on wood. Julia twists free, hair wild, and lunges—grabs Catherine’s shoulders, shoving her toward the bed. Down! Catherine’s knees hit the edge, but she’s quick—twists, hooks Julia’s arm, pulls her in. They’re chest-to-chest again, breathing venom—Catherine slaps Julia’s cheek—crack!—Julia tugs Catherine’s hair, feathers shedding. Take that! It’s fast, sloppy—20 seconds of pure fury.
The Push-Pull:
Julia breaks the clinch—shove!—sending Catherine sprawling across the bed, blue gown fanning out. Stay there. Catherine rolls, springs up—Not a chance—and charges, hands snagging Julia’s wrists, twisting. Julia resists, plants her feet—slap!—lands one on Catherine’s neck, a red mark blooming. Catherine snarls, yanks Julia’s hair harder—down!—forcing her to bend, then shoves. Julia stumbles, crimson skirt flaring, crashes into the wall—thud—but spins, lunging back.
The Peak:
They’re relentless—slap, tug, shove, repeat. Catherine’s train drags, rip stretching but holding; Julia’s tulle swirls, intact but wild. No stopping. Julia grabs Catherine’s hair, pulls side-to-side—Feel this!—Catherine gasps, slaps Julia’s hands away—smack-smack!—then shoves her hard. Julia’s back hits the bedpost—oof—but she bounces, grabs Catherine’s shoulders, spins her—thud—wall again. They’re panting, gowns swaying, fury unchecked.
Emotional Dynamics
Julia’s Rush: Every hit’s a high—She’s not winning this. The Oscar’s gone, but this? Mine. Her cheek stings, hair’s a mess—She’s paying. It’s not just anger; it’s alive—I need this. She snarls, “Come on!”—daring, thriving. She started it. I’ll end it.
Catherine’s Blaze:
Every tug’s a victory—She’s not better. The Oscar’s hers, but this is real—I’ve got her. Her jaw throbs, gown’s strained—She’ll feel me. It’s primal, electric—More. She growls, “Try harder!”—taunting, burning. I’m not done.
The Shared Fury:
They’re synced—slap for slap, shove for shove—You. Me. It’s not about the award, the rip, Sandra—it’s them, unleashed. This feels good pulses in both, a wild, shared thrill. No one knows. The secrecy fuels it—party below, war here.
Physical Dynamics
It’s catfight pure—slaps ring, hair-pulls twist, shoves stagger. No fists, no kicks—gowns dictate. Stay pretty. Julia’s reach edges her; Catherine’s steel balances it. Feathers drift, tulle flares—chaos in elegance. No shredding. The bed’s a prop—bounced off, not broken; walls take hits, not faces.
The Rhythm:
It’s bursts—10-second flurries, gasps, then again. Slap-tug-shove. They’re tiring but wired—adrenaline’s their fuel. Gowns tangle, slowing them—damn skirt—but not stopping. Keep going. It’s not brutal—marks fade fast—but it’s fierce, personal.
The Space: The room’s their cage—bed, walls, floor—every surface a rebound. Thud, smack, swish. The locked door hums with secrecy—party’s a world away. Ours. They’re dancers in a brawl—crimson and blue clashing, untamed.
The Climax
The Build-Up: They’re a whirlwind—crimson tulle and blue velvet clashing, hands flying. Julia’s just shoved Catherine into the wall—thud—hair wild, breath ragged. Catherine’s bounced back, slapped Julia’s cheek—crack!—feathers shedding from her stretched train.
They’re circling again, panting, eyes blazing—More. The party hums below, locked door sealing their world. No stopping now.
The Surge:
Catherine lunges—slap!—nails Julia’s neck, a red welt blooming. “Give up!” she snarls, voice hoarse. Julia’s head jerks, but her fire flares—Not yet. She grabs Catherine’s wrists, twists—gotcha—and shoves hard, using her height. Catherine staggers, gown tangling, back slamming the bedpost—oof!—but she’s quick, yanks Julia’s hair down—pull!—forcing her to bend. Down, bitch.
The Turning Point:
Julia’s knees buckle, but she’s not done—No way. She surges up, adrenaline roaring, and grabs Catherine’s shoulders—spin!—whirling her toward the bed. Catherine resists, slaps Julia’s arm—smack!—but Julia’s momentum holds. She shoves—hard—and Catherine’s legs hit the mattress, toppling her. Crash! Blue velvet fans out, feathers scattering, Oscar-winner sprawled.
The Peak:
Catherine scrambles—Not over—but Julia’s on her, hands pinning Catherine’s shoulders to the bed. Stay down. Catherine thrashes, hair a mess, slaps at Julia’s wrists—smack-smack!—but Julia leans in, weight pressing, crimson tulle spilling over blue. “Enough!” Julia snarls, voice raw, eyes wild. Catherine twists, kicks—gown swishing—but Julia holds, nails digging. I’ve got her.
The Break:
Catherine’s chest heaves—Damn it—and she stills, glaring up. Julia’s panting, triumphant—I won. Their eyes lock—fury, relief, exhaustion. Catherine spits, “Get off!” Julia smirks—Tick tick’s done—and eases back, standing, gown swaying. Catherine sits up, blue velvet rumpled, rip widened but intact. She beat me.
The Aftermath: They’re spent—Julia’s cheek stings, hair a tangle; Catherine’s neck throbs, feathers littering the floor. The bed’s askew, walls scuffed, but the gowns held—glamour bruised, not broken. It’s over. Julia steps back—I did it—Catherine rises, smoothing her train—This time. The party’s jazz drifts up, a world away. No one knows.
Why Julia Wins
The Edge: Julia’s height—5’9” to Catherine’s 5’7”—gives her leverage in shoves and pins. Her Oscar loss fuels a deeper fury—She took that, not this. That tick tick mantra’s her heartbeat, relentless. Catherine’s win stoked her fire, but Julia’s need was sharper—Prove it.
The Dynamics: Julia’s final shove-to-pin combo seals it—classic catfight dominance, not brutality. Catherine fights hard—slaps, tugs—but Julia’s momentum and resolve tip it. She showed, but I finished.
The Emotion: Julia’s smirk—No interference—echoes her bathroom snarl; Catherine’s glare—Next time—keeps her pride. It’s your primal peak—fury spent, winner clear, gowns relatively intact.
Disengagement:
The Pin:
After 25 minutes of a fierce, back-and-forth brawl—slaps ringing, hair flying, gowns tangling—Julia’s on top. Crimson tulle spills over blue velvet as she pins Catherine to the bed, knees pressing into the mattress, body weight sinking in. Catherine’s arms strain—Still fighting?—but Julia’s got her locked, chest heaving, sweat beading. It could’ve gone either way—Catherine’s fire burned hot—but it didn’t. It’s mine, Julia gloats inwardly, steel in her gaze.
The Challenge:
“You done?” Julia challenges, voice low, daring—breath hot from the fight. Catherine’s pinned, arms tense, defiance flickering. “Bitch still wants it,” Julia thinks, feeling the resistance.
“…Yes…” Catherine mumbles, weak, grudging—tension coiling in her limbs. Not enough.
“Are you done?” Julia demands, steel hardening her tone, eyes boring in.
“YES!” Catherine shouts—anger lacing her surrender, tension melting as she slumps. She’s out of the fight.
The Edge:
Julia locks eyes one last time—“God, I still want to slap her!”—rage pulsing. Her hand rears back—Catherine flinches, braced for it—smack waiting. Julia’s pulse races, heavy breaths echoing, but she forces it down—Not now.
Reluctantly, she disengages—rises, steps back—giving Catherine space to peel off the bed. Let her breathe. Julia’s gaze doesn’t waver—drinking it in, basking in the glow—I won. She smooths her gown, tames her hair—crimson still regal, victory hers.
The Snarl:
“Bitch,” Julia sneers, icy venom dripping—staring at Catherine, now upright near the bed, recovering. Catherine glares back—snarl curling her lips, breath ragged—blue velvet rumpled, rip stretched. “You too,” her eyes scream—defeat raw, but alive. Their heavy breaths bounce off the bare walls—ours.
The Moment:
No world exists beyond this—Oscar’s gone, party’s a hum, Hollywood’s a myth. Just this: 25 minutes of wild, passionate war—best given, best taken. Julia’s victory’s hard-fought—I pinned her. Catherine’s defeat stings—She got me—but there’s a strange win in it—I fought. Neither grasps it fully—raw, untamed, visceral—something new tapped, pulsing in their veins. What was that?
The Chime:
Outside, a clock chimes—single, soft—11:30. Already? Time warps—“We just started…”—25 minutes felt like seconds, a lifetime compressed. The party hums below—Sandra’s world oblivious—but up here, it’s theirs, frozen in this raw, victorious echo.
Julia’s Exit
She stood in front of the mirrorless dresser, chest still heaving, face flushed. Her hair was a wild crown, cheeks red where Catherine’s palm had landed again and again. She smoothed the crimson tulle, pressing out creases, fingers combing through tangles. Not perfect, but passable. Regal, still. She glanced once more at Catherine, who sat on the edge of the bed, gown rumpled, chest rising and falling. Julia’s lips curled into a quiet sneer.
“I won.”
The door cracked. Jazz and laughter spilled in. Julia slipped out, her heels whispering against the wooden floor. Down the stairs, the party raged—Tom Hanks still in the pool, guests roaring. No one noticed her slip a champagne flute off a tray, mask her shaking hand with a sip. A tight smile at a producer, a nod at an old co-star. No one saw. No one knew.
Later, in the back of her car, neon bleeding across the windshield, the reel played in her head. The slap. The hair in her fist. Catherine’s grunt beneath her. She gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. Why’d I stop? The almost-slap haunted her more than the pin. She told herself it was mercy, poise. But the truth fluttered darker. It had felt good. Too good.
?
Catherine’s Exit
Upstairs, Catherine peeled herself off the mattress, every inch of her aching. Her jaw throbbed, scalp burned where Julia had yanked. She brushed fingers through her hair, smoothed what remained of her feathers. A rip gaped across her train—souvenir of a night she’d never forget.
She waited a beat after Julia’s exit, unwilling to trail her like a shadow. At 11:35, she stepped into the empty hall. Velvet dragged behind her as she glided down the back staircase, slipping into the sea of guests at the bar. A glass of champagne appeared in her hand. She sipped, smiled faintly at a stranger, then vanished through the side door into the cool night air.
Her car hummed softly. The Oscar statuette—still safe, still hers—flashed in her mind, but it meant less now. The true prize was replaying in her body: Julia’s snarl inches away, the sting of her palm, the push and pull that had consumed them both. She winced at her bruises but smiled faintly. She’d lost, yes—but she’d fought. Something deep and primal had come alive in her.
?
The Shared Echo
Two women, two cars, two different routes across Los Angeles. Neither saw the city. Both saw only each other, etched into their skin, vibrating in their blood. Julia thought, Not just victory. Catherine thought, Not just defeat. They had unlocked something they didn’t know they carried—an untamed, wordless tether.
… and absolutely nobody is none the wiser.
Or so they think. Sandra Bullock is no fool. She knows that if she’s going to be throwing a party with Hollywood, a listers and agents and producers and directors, she better have her base is covered. Julia and Catherine were completely unaware that for liability purposes Sandra installed motion detected security cameras tucked discreetly in the corner of each unused room.
And that little, unnoticed, digital eye caught and recorded everything.
Everything.
TO BE CONTINUED…..
