A Hollywood Secret
by (Hidden)
Supernatural Story: Seeing your name on the big, bright lights of Hollywood comes at a price. What would you be willing to pay? Will that be enough? Not all wounds leave a mark, but they are still deeply felt and continue to fester — not on the body but on the soul.
Caution: This Supernatural Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Drunk/Drugged Mind Control Reluctant Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Celebrity Crime Fairy Tale Horror Mystery Paranormal Magic Rough White Female Hispanic Male Hispanic Female .
The Chateau ballroom glittered like the champagne in a glass flute. Everywhere, sequins and silk shimmered, golden statues clutched tight by manicured fingers. Photographers had finally been pushed out, leaving behind only the A-list, their laughter softening now that the stage lights were off.
In one corner, by a velvet banquette, two unmistakable women slowly gravitated toward one another, not knowing why.
The first was tall, with a blonde-haired South African woman of fifty, but looked to be in her mid-thirties, with porcelain skin that seemed to glow even without makeup. Her fiery red gown hugged her every curve like armor. Everyone in the room knew her as the woman whose first foray into Oscar territory saw her transform into the body and mind of a serial killer. Her repertoire soon expanded to include playing a formidable fighter in a bleak desert world of the future. Her years of acting and modeling had molded her, and that discipline had formed her posture.
The second was younger. Twenty-something. Dark hair, wide eyes, a Texas-born starlet who had once fronted a pop group before shifting into acting. She had even won the other Hollywood wives and girlfriends’ congratulations for joining the unofficial club by marrying an NFL quarterback. Tonight, she was not successful in winning a second Oscar to go with the one she won as a teenager. Her sequined silver-blue gown made her shimmer every time she moved.
“You don’t look like someone who just won,” the younger teased gently. “Shouldn’t you be glowing?”
The South African’s smile was sharp but tired. “Victory never feels the way you think it will. It’s ... quieter. Almost lonely.”
The Texas starlet tilted her head. “Or maybe you’re missing something else entirely.”
The blonde turned sharply. For a heartbeat, the room’s noise seemed to fall away.
The starlet lowered her voice to a hush. “A hotel room.”
The words hung between them like a pulled thread.
The blonde didn’t blink. Her knuckles tightened against her glass. Then, slowly, her lips curved into something small and secretive. “So. He found you too.”
The starlet’s chest seized. “I thought I was going crazy. I almost didn’t say anything to you, it’s just that I’ve seen your expression in my mirror. So I.” She paused. “So I thought I dreamed it —”
“The best of your life,” the South African whispered, finishing the thought for her.
The younger nodded fiercely, her eyes shining. “Yes. God, yes. The whole experience felt too big, too consuming to be real, and yet —”
“You remember nothing else. Not how you got there, not how you left.”
“Well I left in a haze, but I’d been to that hotel many times but I didn’t remember getting there at all.” She paused again, caught up in remembering. “The way he made me want to say yes before I even knew I wanted to,” the starlet breathed. “Only what he called me.”
“Principessa.”
“Exactly!” The South African stared for a moment, recollecting her own experience, then she set her glass down. For the first time in years, she found someone to share the burden of this secret, far larger than any golden statue. “He’s real. And you’ll wait the rest of your life for him to come back.”
If anyone had been watching the two ingénues, it would have looked like two women desperately trying to keep from ripping each other’s clothing off. But in reality, they were two women desperately trying to quantify their newfound connection while maintaining appearances.
The two women sat quietly for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, when a personal assistant circled the South African bombshell and whispered something into her ear. The Texas starlet couldn’t quite make it out. But the South African was immediately reaching for the phone her assistant handed to her. “What is it? Is something wrong?” The Texas newlywed asked nervously.
“For us,” the South African explained. “No,” the South African offered solemnly while bringing up something on her phone. The assistant stepped back, momentarily shocked, her face a picture of shock. A simple, pointed look from her boss, the South African, told the assistant everything she needed to know. Her boss had found another one. The two actresses switched from sitting across from each other on separate love seats to sharing a single couch and scrunched closer together to share the unfolded screen.
“According to officials, the actress, made famous for her portrayal of the dragon queen in HBO’s Game of Thrones, was pronounced dead this evening from what doctors have called a stroke resulting from a brain aneurysm. The English actress had suffered a similar injury in 2011 and followed with another a short couple of years later. Doctors had pronounced her in excellent health after a full checkup before she was to begin filming a new movie in London. Doctors believed overexertion might have loosened the blood clot in her brain and had been the cause of her death.” The newscaster was cut off when the South African folded the phone screen and returned it to her assistant.
“Wow. She was way too young to be worried about having brain aneurysms, wasn’t she?” the young starlet asked, but continued with her thoughts rather than wait for an answer. “Didn’t she announce she believed the first aneurysm happened while getting into shape for her Terminator movie,” the newlywed pointed out, showing her limited knowledge of the British actress’s life.
The South African nodded and stared at her new, young friend for a moment. “Dear. While we weren’t that close of friends, she did confess the first aneurysm happened relatively soon after she met our friend.” The newlywed was shocked by the revelation. “Her body might not have been able to handle the experience. She became a ticking time bomb. And she was desperate to find him.”
“Do you think he did something to her?” the Texan newlywed asked of her newfound friend in suffering.
“No. I think she just could not handle what had happened to her physically.”
They sat together on the couch quietly for a few moments before the younger actress restarted their conversation. “I get scared when I think about that night with him,” she explained. The South African goddess sat quietly, letting the younger woman share her feelings. “I’m not scared of what happened to her, maybe happening to me,” she pointed to the phone in the assistant’s hand. I’m scared of what would happen if I found him again. I might not be able to keep myself from —”
“From saying yes.” The blonde starlet answered for her. “Same here. I’m worried that if he does come back, I’ll drop everything in my life to be with him.”
“Now that is fucking scary,” the assistant could not keep her thoughts from spilling out, and both actresses smiled in understanding, since the woman had only a cursory idea of the depth of their feelings.
Golden Globes Lounge
The Beverly Hilton buzzed like a beehive. The Golden Globes had ended in drunken speeches and champagne-slicked embraces. Upstairs, in the private lounge, quieter voices hummed. These voices were sectioned off from the rest of the party by industrious assistants excelling in the performance of their duties.
On a low sofa, three women sat together.
The South African queen.
The Texan newlywed.
And now another statuesque bombshell of a blonde, nearly sixty years old but looking in her mid-forties, was draped in a crimson gown that shimmered like molten rubies.
Everyone knew the blonde — an Australian-born powerhouse with alabaster skin. The Aussie had six Golden Globes, two primetime Emmy awards, and an Academy Award to her name, as well as more nominations than she could easily count, and a reputation for blunt honesty in interviews that terrified producers and delighted the press.
“You two look awfully conspiratorial,” she said with a sly smile, slipping into their circle. “Planning to steal each other’s roles?” The Aussie queen joined the group through her friendship with the South African bombshell, with whom she previously worked on a film.
The South African didn’t laugh. Instead, she studied the blonde for a few moments, then, recognizing something, then softly asked: “Have you ever woken in a hotel room you didn’t remember entering? With only the memory of ... the best night of your life?”
The Aussie blonde froze and nearly dropped her flute of champagne, but caught it before spilling any of the contents. The newlywed leaned in after glancing at the South African woman about the timing of springing their question before having to deal with an actual spill. She whispered, “It happened to both of us, too.”
The South African blonde and the Texan newlywed looked at each other and shared their experience with the Aussie goddess in a single word, “Principessa.”
The Aussie goddess slumped into the nearest chair as if her puppet strings had been cut. She quickly swallowed all the contents of her current flute before reaching for a new one offered by a nearby assistant. “Oh my God.” She put her glass down hard. “Him.”
The South African offered her a knowing hand.
“I thought —” The Aussie’s voice cracked, and for once she sounded unsure. “I thought I’d hallucinated it. I never told anyone. How could I? They’d have me committed.”
“We know,” the statuesque South African blonde said, eyes sharp. The younger newlywed simply nodded in knowing.
The newlywed’s voice shook. “We thought it was just us, too. But it isn’t.” The three clasped hands in solidarity, and the South African offered her hand to their new friend in their secret. She took it and dragged over a small chair to join the other two women, sharing each other’s pain.
The Australian blonde, of near-Hollywood royalty status, laughed raggedly. She pressed a hand against her chest, steadying herself. “Then he’s real. He’s real, and I’ve been waiting ... Christ, I’ve been waiting for him ever since.”
The three of them sat shoulder to shoulder, champagne bubbling around them, their shared silence heavier than any of the trophies downstairs.
The Grammy Awards
Music thundered through the air as lights strobed, and cameras flashed. The Grammy Awards afterparty was chaos incarnate — Hollywood, New York, and London all colliding on a crowded dance floor.
In a quieter side room, a growing circle of women had gathered, pulled together not by chance but by something invisible and magnetic. The signs that a woman who had met the man was getting easier to spot, especially for those who bore them like a Scarlet Letter.
The South African queen.
The newlywed starlet.
The blonde Australian film goddess.
And now another: the pop rebel.
She wore a white tuxedo covered in crystals that caught every flicker of light; her raven hair was cut to a military buzz cut, and her eyeliner was as sharp as a razor blade. Everyone knew her story — the girl who once wore a meat dress to the MTV Video Music Awards (VMAs), the chameleon who had shifted from provocateur to jazz singer to Oscar-nominated actress without ever losing the core of her defiance. Tonight, her eyes, usually blazing, were glassy and searching after finding herself pulled into the circle.
“You’ve all seen him,” she said, voice flat, trembling. “Haven’t you?”
No one denied it. But all three looked to each other and shared their truth in a single word, “Principessa.”
The pop star leaned back into the sofa and called for a cigarette from her ever-present assistant. The others let her process the news of others with her shared experience. “I thought it was a fever dream or maybe I got way to fucked up. I’ve tried to write songs about it — like, whole albums — but it never comes out right. I only remember the voice. Low. Calm. Like he already owned me before I knew I belonged to him.”
“That’s him,” the blonde whispered.
The starlet shivered and mainly mumbled to herself, “Principessa.”
“My grandfather used to call me that when I was a little kid. I had not heard that since him and he’s been gone for years.”
From across the room, another figure approached: a brunette with sharp cheekbones and a coolness that could freeze air. She was the Harvard-educated darling of serious cinema, famous for her intelligence as much as her beauty, often speaking with careful, deliberate diction that made journalists swoon. She was a presenter for the evening.
“Principessa,” she said flatly, her diamond earrings swinging as she stopped before them.
Every head turned. Recognition flared.
“So it wasn’t just me,” she said softly, the rough and tough exterior falling away immediately, happily, almost bitterly.
“No,” the South African replied. “It’s all of us.”
The brunette’s mask cracked for a second — pain, relief, fear. She sat down hard. “Then I’ll never escape him.”
No one corrected her. She could not stop the visceral fear from plastering itself across her face. “I’ll never find him again, will I?” She shared a drag off the pop rebel’s cigarette. “Shit,” she mumbled and whispered longingly in remembrance, “Principessa.”
The room sat quietly for a moment. The brunette spoke up again. “Well, I’m happy that I found others who have a chance of understanding what I’ve been feeling,” she announced and then upended the contents of a champagne flute down her throat before continuing her thought, looking at the growing crowd of women, each rapt in attention. “He does have good taste.”
There were several understanding snickers, but the brunette continued, “I bet each one of you would not hesitate to give up everything for a second chance at him.”
Each perfectly made-up face nodded in understanding. Yes, they were now friends, but they had to agree that, for a second chance with him, neither of them would hesitate to eliminate any competition.
Vanity Fair Gala
The Vanity Fair Gala party shimmered with so much wattage it threatened to blind. Champagne cascaded, gowns glittered, tuxedos gleamed. The biggest night after the Oscars was less about the awards than about the after.
But in one alcove, several women stood close together, their dresses brushing against each other like silken secrets.
The South African queen, her blonde hair coiffed high.
The Texas-born starlet is fragile and fierce all at once.
The blonde Australian goddess, poise and laughter masking her nerves.
The pop rebel, glittering in her now blue tuxedo covered in crystals, stood valiantly.
The Harvard brunette, severe and haunted.
Others lingered nearby — faces that audiences adored, stars of screens large and small. The circle was growing.
“He doesn’t belong to one of us,” the Australian-born blonde moaned softly, voice shaking with something between awe and despair. “He belongs to all of us. And we — God help us — we belong to him.”
“I want him back,” the pop star admitted, her voice sharp with hunger. “I don’t care how dark it is. I’ve never wanted anything more.”
The young starlet’s lips trembled. “It’s like he saw something in us no one else ever could.”
“Or exploited something no one else could touch,” the brunette said coldly, cutting through the warmth like ice.
Silence followed. The mood wafting off these women was heavy, undeniable, and excellent at keeping others away. Only those who understood the necessity of their group can be with it now. The starlets began leaning on each other emotionally, and their assistants all circled, protecting their friends and bosses.
The Aussie blonde finally lifted her glass in a toast. “It doesn’t matter what he took, or what he gave. He is part of us now. And we will wait. All of us. Until he comes again. And until then, we, at least, have each other for consolation.”
And in the glittering chaos of Hollywood’s brightest party, while cameras snapped and champagne flowed, several examples of the world’s most powerful women stood quietly together, as morose beacons in the fog of excess.
Not as rivals. Not as colleagues. But as prey who had been claimed and left hungry.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
And then another slipped into their circle.
She was another blonde, with a megawatt smile and an accent still laced with the warmth of Queensland. Her meteoric rise had made her the face of bombshells and Barbie dolls alike, though insiders whispered of her shrewdness and steel beneath the gloss.
“Why do I feel like this group is hiding something delicious back here?” she asked, her eyes still searching out the forbidden delicacy she knew had to be there.
The Australian blonde recognized the pain in her false smile and reached for her hand. “Tell me something, darling. Have you ever woken up in a hotel room ... and remembered only him?”
The younger blonde’s smile faltered, and her eyes — wide, oceanic — darkened. “You too?”
The pop rebel leaned forward. “Yes, Principessa.”
The newcomer laughed softly, shaken. “I thought it was some wild hallucination. I told myself I’d drunk too much, that my head invented him. But God,” Her voice dropped. “It was the best thing I’ve ever felt. I’ve wanted it back ever since.” She finished off her flute of champagne in one swallow. “Why didn’t I just say yes?”
The circle turned in disbelief to the newest member as if she had lifted a fog covering their memories. They all suddenly remembered being asked a question and answering negatively. But why? None of the circle could remember the question, but they all did remember their answer.
Their circle grew tighter, embracing the newest Barbie, and all of them were ever grateful for her revelation of the bright light that showed them why they were denied a future of perfection.
Cannes
The French Riviera sparkled, and the Promenade de la Croisette was alive with diamonds and camera flashes. Inside one of the festival’s infamous private parties, another confession cracked the night.
This time it came from a statuesque figure in a white silk gown, her hair a dark cascade, her features striking and feline. The raven-haired French actress, known worldwide, was the face of perfume campaigns, with a depth of acting roles spanning arthouse films to turns as simply evil villains in superhero blockbusters, and a reputation for understated elegance.
Her accent carried Paris in every syllable.
“Vous parlez de lui,” she said, slipping into their circle. “The man. The hotel room.”
The blonde Aussie queen’s glass froze midair.
The French actress’s eyes gleamed knowingly. “So all of you. He found all of you,” she asked.
“Wow. Internationally, as well,” the Harvard brunette known for giving birth to twin legends in a galaxy far, far away turned to the newest member of their group. “Yes, Principessa.”
The French starlet nearly fainted to the ground hearing the confirmation, but played it off as a misstep in her high heels. She looked at the group of beautiful women gathered before her. They all seemed to be healing together. “He found me, too. On the Croisette, years ago. I thought it was a dream. But now I see —” She looked around the circle at the smiling group of internationally known beauties. “It was not only me.”
The pop rebel whispered, “No, it’s all of us.”
The French actress inclined her head while her lips curved faintly. “Then we are sisters in this. Sisters of his choosing.”
The mood with the group seemed to lift momentarily because of the closeness of others and the numerous camera flashes. “The burgeoning French film legend smiled. “So, this club of ours, does it have cool leather jackets like in Grease?”
The curtains were drawn enough that the sunlight seemed bruised, heavy with an amber haze that dimmed everything it touched. The light pressed against her eyes, like the world itself wanted her to wake up. The unfamiliar sheets tingled against her body. She tried to sit, but the overindulgent evening made her pause. Where was she? She didn’t recognize this place. The memory of her previous evening filled in many of the holes about the days of pomp and celebration that had passed.
The former child star was becoming almost accustomed to receiving awards from different societies for her acting work and her image recognition was also helped by starring as the popular character of a formerly only-animated children’s books and cartoons, then co-starring as a key character in a runaway HBO hit shows based on a video game burrowing its way through the zeitgeist, and now donning computer-generated wings and a mace for a romp through the comic book world.
Her week overflowed with scheduled appearances at various Hollywood-type parties. The young actress dutifully accepted her numerous accolades, which still served as an unofficial scoring system for the who’s who of Hollywood. Attendance was all damned near mandatory, but most would agree the thrill of the lights and camera flashes of Hollywood elites all clamoring for the chance to be the next to congratulate the next to be commended. It could be considered akin to attending the prom several times a week and working your way through the throngs of well-wishers, either trying to carve out a niche in your burgeoning career or to put the kibosh on it before it can mature.
It was all pretty fun the first few times you experienced it. Still, now, with the increasing importance of each party and awards ceremony, the young Latina singer/actress was slowly tiring of it. But she reminded herself to persevere, as she had spent years becoming an overnight star. They were not paying attention to her during the unbelievably long hours of rehearsal and the repetitive efforts put into achieving Hollywood perfection. But the young starlet could not remember ever wanting to be anywhere else. That was when her perceptions began to join her in the now.
“Hey, where the hell am I?” the young ingénue asked aloud as she fought to pull herself out from underneath the variety of different-sized pillows at the head of the California King-sized bed currently cocooning her petite, barely five-foot-tall on a good day, frame.
“Ah, good morning,” announced a man seated at the head of a dining table, ensconced in Gold and glass. The Hollywood starlet flipped herself over to face in the direction of the voice. She pushed herself up to the tufted headboard while reaching for the nearest set of blankets and a pillow, quickly improvising a defensive wall. He was seated as if he had been there for hours, one ankle crossed over the other, both studying the newspaper and eating a gloriously large breakfast laid out on the table before him. His gaze held hers immediately, steady, unblinking. His eyes were dark and fierce, but after initial fears, a broad malaise wafted over the young Latina actress. Her subconscious hacked its way through a thicket of fear but concluded she was not in immediate danger. Even though she did not know him, this was when she first got a glimpse of her current predicament. It appeared to be an opulent hotel room. Where? She still had no idea.
“It is good you are awake, Principessa. I was beginning to think you had partaken in too much alcohol last evening and would be unable to cope with it today,” he explained as he vainly began attempting to coax the newspaper back into its original neatness. The creases would not let him go against the grain in refolding the paper.
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