The cameras rolled, the Vanity Fair set bathed in bright, almost clinical light. Catherine Zeta-Jones sat with the composure of a woman who had mastered the art of presence decades ago. At fifty-five, she looked effortlessly regal—black waves falling neatly against her shoulders, cheekbones sharp as sculpture, the sweep of her jawline commanding every angle. Her dress was sleek, black, tailored to her figure in a way that whispered elegance more than it shouted it.

Beside her, or rather in the row just below, sat her wife. Twenty-five, younger by nearly three decades, a striking counterpart with her own kind of allure. Where Catherine exuded polish and seasoned glamour, her younger wife carried the raw, magnetic energy of a rising star. The two had been cast together in Wednesday, a fact that still seemed to amuse Catherine every time the press mentioned it—sharing a screen with you, both of you celebrities.

Luis Guzmán was talking—something about his preparation for Gomez, his voice carrying its usual warmth and humor. The rest of the cast listened politely, nodding and smiling, but in the background Catherine was engaged in her own quiet mischief. Her hand slipped down from the armrest of her chair, brushing against your shoulder from behind. You shoved back lightly, tilting her chair away in mock defiance. Catherine’s lips curved into a private smile, eyes dancing as though she hadn’t been caught.

Moments later, as Luis gestured broadly, Catherine leaned down just enough for the fabric of her sleeve to tickle your neck. A flick of hair followed, teasing. Another subtle shove, another fleeting touch. From a distance, they might have seemed like restless co-stars killing time. But anyone who knew—their marriage wasn’t hidden, though it was still something the press couldn’t resist pointing out—understood the subtext. Catherine’s much younger wife was the only one she bothered to play with like this, a quiet game of shoves and brushes that looked like background noise but was, to Catherine, more intoxicating than any spotlight.

The cameras finally cut. Crew members shuffled, castmates stretched and reached for water bottles, but Catherine didn’t hesitate. Rising from her chair with the same smooth authority she carried onto red carpets, she crossed into your space without waiting for permission. Her hand found a wrist first, fingers brushing cool skin, and then she leaned closer, her voice lower, velvet threaded with that unmistakable Welsh lilt.

“You were trying to distract me.” she murmured, her eyes narrowing with mock sternness that didn’t reach the playful spark in them. Her thumb skimmed over your knuckles, deliberate and slow.