By the time Karlee Leilani Perez stepped through the ropes in Florida Championship Wrestling in 2009, she already had the kind of screen presence you couldn’t teach. Cuban, Hawaiian, Chinese, Spanish, Italian—her blood was a cocktail of contradictions, and it came alive under the lights. The fans saw Maxine. The camera saw drama. But inside the woman was an actress waiting to escape, and a soul that never quite fit the mold.
She was Tampa-born and college-educated in criminology, with a curiosity for justice and a flair for villainy. Wrestling was never her first language—it was the medium. She arrived in FCW as “The Candy Girl” before being rechristened Liviana, playing the role of valet and supporting cast. She wasn’t winning tournaments. She wasn’t stealing shows. But she understood the camera, the audience, the seduction of the slow burn.
Then came Maxine.
NXT: Soap Opera in Spandex
In WWE’s experimental laboratory, NXT, Maxine wasn’t a prodigy in the ring—she was a plot twist wrapped in six-inch heels and scorn. Her feuds were less about wristlocks and more about backstage machinations. She didn’t need pyrotechnics—she had pursed lips and dangerous pauses.
Maxine embodied the reality-era heel: manipulative, calculating, and disarmingly self-aware. Her storylines with Derrick Bateman, Johnny Curtis, and Kaitlyn became the low-budget daytime TV arcs that NXT Redemption thrived on. If others were playing wrestler, Perez played chess.
There was drama—literal. In the 100th episode of Redemption, her fake wedding unraveled with the kind of slapstick treachery that only wrestling can turn into mythology. She was never booked to climb the ladder. But somehow, everyone was watching.
Then, just like that, she walked away.
Lucha Underground: A Queen Ascends
Perez didn’t just return to wrestling. She transformed it.
In 2014, El Rey Network’s Lucha Underground gave her something Vince McMahon never had: power. As “Catrina,” she draped herself in black, led death-dealing monsters like Mil Muertes, and became the high priestess of wrestling noir. Gone was the flirty sass of Maxine. In her place stood a character who didn’t blink, didn’t break, and didn’t need to speak loudly to own the screen.
She delivered “The Lick of Death” like it was a blessing and a curse. She ruled a graveyard stable of henchmen, manipulated championships, and in season three, even stepped into the ring for real. Wrestling had finally caught up to her talents—not just as a performer, but as a woman building her own myth.
Off-Screen and On-Camera
While others chased belts, Perez chased range. She studied acting while in WWE and shifted full-time into film and television roles. She appeared in web series, indie thrillers, and even played Lisa Lyon in the 2018 biopic Mapplethorpe. Her performances were often sharp, wounded, and aloof—like someone who’s seen what’s behind the curtain and decided to write her own script.
The Legacy of Control
Karlee Perez never main-evented a WrestleMania. She never hoisted gold in front of 80,000 fans. But she carved out something far rarer: control over her own narrative. She didn’t wait for WWE to push her. She didn’t linger in locker rooms waiting for someone else to see the star in her. She packed her boots, built a new world in Lucha Underground, and walked away again when the lights no longer excited her.
In the end, Karlee Perez wasn’t just a Diva. She was an auteur—of dark cabaret wrestling, of wrestling’s gothic golden age, of performance beyond the pinfall. And that might be the most powerful move in the business.