Nobody ever really knows anybody. Not really.
At eighteen, I got engaged to a boy I never meant to marry. In Kate Baer’s words, “I loved him more than anyone has ever loved, and I still cut him open, held his heart to his throat.”
At twenty-eight, I married a rich man. He left me poor. If you asked Baer, she’d say, “When I took him as a husband, I did not know the deaths our love would suffer.”
I’d tell them both the same thing: all I ever meant to do was live.
***
Cassius Meyer. Late-thirties. The kind of man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to take it. My kind of man. But with that whiskey breath, unkempt hair and the slouch of a man who hadn’t slept in days, he wasn’t here to court me. I wasn’t here to be anyone’s siren. This was business. This was my deposition.
His voice scraped through the air. “Tell me, where’d you meet?”
“My husband? Aphrodite Hour.” He already knew this. “I danced there.”
He could spare me the judgment. I’d heard it all: gold digger, scammer, prostitute. Those labels never suited me.
“I danced because I could. And I made damn good money doing it. My childhood hadn’t been chandeliers and apple-pear croissants. No pity necessary. I needed out of the constant lack, not enough, not having enough, not being enough. Dance put me on tables with hot-shot brokers, crooked politicians, Casanova investors. Even your favourite film stars and songstresses watched from across the room. I wasn’t cheap. I knew how to put on a show. If they liked what they saw, that was their business. Dancing was mine.”
I leaned back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, slow and deliberate, like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, not for comfort, but as a dare.
“Mrs. Sterling–”
“Call me, Vivienne.”
He shook his head, disagreeable. “I advise you to stick to answering the questions.”
“Right. You think I killed him,” I said through a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You do, right?”
“Mrs. Sterling.” His tone hardened. “Just answer the question.”
This was the story he wanted: “Valentine’s Day. Aphrodite Hour. A big night for me. Every dancer gets a production. The real money comes Friday nights at nine, Saturdays at seven. But headlining on Valentine’s Day? That’s when you know you’ve made it. The manager gave me my shot. I took it.”
I drifted for a second, nostalgia creeping in.
“The outfit—I styled myself. Thigh-high Louis Vuitton boots, sequined black and gold. A body-hugging mermaid dress, short enough for a floor routine. Strapless, so my arms moved freely when Lady Marmalade hit the speakers. That night, I was everybody. I danced like I could be anybody. Even just for him. Roman.”
“You were married at this time?”
“No. Engaged. To Julian Greene,” I reminisced. “I told him I would break his heart, but he never believed me. Maybe because I never left. But I was always going to. I just knew. He was a good man but he never could’ve been mine. Too many disappointments. Too much self-interrogation. It would’ve never worked. Self-sufficiency and self-understanding are crucial to strong romantic bonds. Don’t you think?”
Cassius shifted, fidgeting with his tie. A lipstick stain clung to the collar of his shirt. Red. His mistress wanted him caught. He hadn’t noticed yet.
“I ask the questions, Mrs. Sterling.”
A man who takes charge. I liked that. I tapped my shoulder. “Your mistress might feel otherwise.”
A slow, dangerous smile curled my lips– the question. “Julian sought out relationships to feel anchored. He would never change, not into the man I needed. So I was always going to leave. He knew that. Giving him up was the best thing I did. It made room for others.”
“Like Roman?”
I told him about Roman. How he had come to the club alone. That had sealed the intrigue. Men like him usually arrived in packs; arrogant jock types with loud attitudes and worse style. Desperate for attention, even while paying for it. But when my song came on, none of it mattered. Christina Aguilera’s voice blasted through the speakers. The confidante, the warrior, the succubus, I became them all. Hands in the air, hips swaying, speaking in only one language—body. I was the Aphrodite.
I held Cassius’ gaze. This time he was less fearful, perhaps entranced by the version of me that made this story.
“I never danced for attention. Some girls did. But from my shoulders, to my backflips, to the way my hips swayed and my hair’s toss, the sharp precision of my leg extensions, each movement spelled out words only my heart controlled. And so when I danced it was to send a message. Some men got lost in it, misrepresented my truth, confused why I did what I did– minimising the detail with their male gaze. But that night, Roman saw me. He understood every word.”
I remembered it like it was just yesterday. How satisfied, Roman stayed in his seat, a cigar tilted from his mouth, hands raising in slow applause. Our eyes locked. He lingered. I was the first to look away as I was called off stage. Roses hit the floor. Bills rained for the managers to collect.
I mouthed to Cassius, “If all that glittered was gold, I struck the jackpot with Roman.”
***
A disheveled man sat bound to a chair, wires strapped to his chest and wrists. His white shirt wrinkled, his face bloodied, the scent of desperation clinging to the room. Opposite him, sat a calmer and cleaner Cassius, reading the pulse results as they were transmitted onto the screen. He took a bite from his sandwich, raised a thumb.
“Take a breather.” A crumb slipped from the corner of his lip. “I’ll ask a bunch of questions. Based on your answers, the machine will tell me if you’re being truthful.”
The man nodded.
“Is your name Roman Sterling?”
The first question set the tone. The yes, paired with a nod, confirmed the truth. The rest came standard. Thirty-five years old. Mother, a seamstress. Father, a welder. Middle-class upbringing. Graduated top of his finance class at Morreu Vale University. Interned at Mercury Financials. Climbed his way up to become one of the firm’s best stockbrokers.
Then, the question everyone wanted answered.
“Did you kill Vivienne Waldorf?”
A pause. Roman stared, his top lip twitching. The machine picked up the nerves. A heavy sigh. A tear slipped past his ear.
“I was in love with her.”
***
“Right? What was the question? How did I meet Roman?”
I’ve told the story many times. The beginning, the ending, always stays the same.
“Draped in my red faux fur coat, shielding myself from the cold biting through my fishnets, I spotted a black Cadillac across the street, parked by the exit – the one all the girls used to slip out of Aphrodite to avoid the catcalls of the damned and broken joes who had nowhere else to go. You know the one?”
Cassius frowned.
“Anyway, Roman stepped out. Suit and tie. The same polished look he wore on the other side of the stage. He removed his hat to let me get a good look. To lose his mystery, I figured. And clearly I had a type – mysteriousness often carried a weight of melancholy and depression.
And so carrying the husk of Dalmore 62, grit laced with devour, Roman said, “Sorry to bother you.”
My heart said run. My libido said stay. A man like him was only good for one thing. My brain finally kicked in. And then he introduced himself. Extended his hand, the weight of his wealth resting on his wrist, a pure gold Romain watch. Pure gold. Worth a man and his land where I came from, and he said, “Roman Sterling.”
A slow smile spread across my lips. Cassius missed it.
“Next thing, I was asking Roman what he did for a living. Our eyes locked. And I recognised those sad kind eyes because I’d seen them in me. And behind them was a man who knew what he wanted and exactly how to get it. My kind of man. I took his hand, holding his gaze, keeping him in my company.
“I fly planes,” he said, releasing my grip. “Do you always dance like that?”
I cut to the chase. Another thirty minutes before I was off the clock. Private parties mattered just as much as the stage. “Do you want to get to know me?”
He cracked a smile. Unabashed by my directness. A trait he preferred in a woman. His eyes made it clear he wanted to undress me. But he had me all wrong. Again, I put on shows to move minds not catch the eye. So if a man like him, on a night like this, was hoping to seduce me for a hefty price, he had the wrong girl.
I tilted my head, showing him I meant business. “Do you have a stage?”
“Dinner.” He shifted, reading me. “I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
“Only fast-food chains are open at this hour, Mr. Sterling.” I was good with names. “Is that where you take all your girls on a first date? Or just the ones you picture naked?”
He blushed. Amused, I gathered, because the next thing he did was open his car door for me.
“I know a place. Niche, but open.”
“Our exchange was mutual admiration. A dance all its own. Without a second glance, I got in.”
***
Cassius drummed his fingers on the table, eyes locked on his subject.
“You loved Vivienne. And yet you confessed to her murder. Why is that?”
Roman exhaled, slow and measured, studying his own reflection like he was waiting for it to speak first.
“She resented me. I think she always did. When I asked her to marry me, she said people entered relationships to validate what they believed they lacked. She never said yes. Never said no. Just that.”
Cassius leaned forward. “And?”
“I asked what she meant by that and she said it boiled down to self-interrogation. What the hell does that even mean?” He let out a short humorless laugh. “I loved her. Obsessed over her. We tried therapy. You remember, we were all there. A girl like that—people assume she’d marry for stability, for money. But she wasn’t that kind of girl. Even after we married, she refused to give up her spot at The Aphrodite Hour. It was hers. No man could take that from her. Not even her husband. So it became ours.”
“You bought the club?”
“I bought the club. One of my best investments yet.” He shrugged, shifting in his seat. “It was hard, watching other men lust after her. Imagining the positions they’d put her in. She was their fantasy. I knew, because I used to be one of them. But I had to let go. Whether on stage or on the street, someone was always going to want Vivienne. She was magnetic. Impossible to ignore. When she spoke, she became something else entirely—coquette and star in the same breath.”
Cassius smirked, a flush creeping up his neck. He straightened, raised a hand, unsure which one of them had spoken last. “Mr. Sterling, I ask the questions.”
Staring at his mirror, Roman smirked back, waiting for him to blink first. “If seduction was a class, Vivienne would be the subject. It was her business. And I learned to understand that.”
His voice dropped, softer. “She gave everything life. Everything, routines, even you, all of it, the ordinary. She walked in and suddenly life felt like an engaging sport again. Every day, something new. She never stood still. Either that, or I was always chasing, trying to keep up. Sometimes, I felt like an impediment. Like there was something better for her and I was just standing in the way. Sometimes, it was impossible to tell if it was how I felt or if it was how she made me feel. And because of that, I missed the moment she stopped being happy.”
Recognising himself, Cassius tapped his pencil against the desk, intrigued. “The exact moment she stopped being happy. What do you mean by that?”
Roman’s jaw tightened. “I hurt her. She never asked for much. That made it hard for anyone to take care of her. I had mocked Julian over the same.”
Cassius tilted his head.
“Julian Greene.” He coughed the name out. “The man before you. You knew him?”
“Yes. And yes.” Roman’s lips curled. “He profited too long from her kindness. And she made it okay, for a while, which was a mean thing to do to herself. Don’t you agree?”
He pointed a finger at Cassius, facing himself, half curious, half accusing. “Men like him always have expiration dates. Julian knew his time was up when she met me. And he deserved it. She deserved more—better, stronger.”
He relaxed a little, his mind dancing in his memory. “She was no flower either. Vivienne was dangerous. She entertained the circus but always knew when to cut the ropes. When the dance was over. It was almost premeditated. Like you were never a destination, just the next stop. And by the time you finally realised it, you were already too far gone.”
Cassius tapped his pencil again, wrestling with his reflection, weighing his next move.
“Everything okay?” asked Roman.
“Back to…”
“You’re fading,” Roman whispered.
“Back to the moment she stopped being happy.”
“Please stay,” Roman begged.
“Back to the moment she stopped being happy. When was that?”
***
Cassius. His name choked my heart.
“Can I call you Cass?” I gulped, swallowing our history. “Well, then—Cass. Somebody once told me life isn’t a problem to solve but a mystery to live. And like everybody else, we hit a point where boredom creeps in. Something has to give, something has to change.”
I had said this in therapy, if he only knew.
“Anyway, I knew I was unhappy with Roman the day I decided I was happy to share him.”
Now, that caught his attention, and with measured words he asked, “You had an open relationship?”
No, I sighed to myself. “Nothing polyamorous, nothing open. Maybe a little unconventional, but he never knew how to be with someone who needed him differently. And to be understood without having to explain—that’s a rare thing.”
***
Bowing his head, Roman couldn’t raise the glass to himself anymore. “I knew Vivienne was unhappy when she gave me a freedom clause.”
His neck jittered in its space. “Once a year. With a total stranger. Clean. Detached. No mess. Her words. She had read it somewhere. Under this clause, if I met someone, I could take it further – however, whatever. It made no difference to her. But only once a year. Just for that one night. Can you imagine hearing that? It shattered me. In layman’s terms, she was telling me I wasn’t enough.”
Cassius paused. “Explain. Why’d you think that?”
“She wanted someone else.”
“Did she say that?”
Roman blinked twice, observing Cassius but never feeling he was fully real.
“Cassius. Cass? Can I call you Cass?” he echoed. “My mistake with Vivienne was assuming she would be forever. Forgetting that love – most importantly hers – had to be gardened. But instead of understanding that, getting help, dealing with my… I offered her absence. I offered her you.”
Cassius fumbled over his next few words, a vision of him flickering behind Roman’s teary eyes but he managed to proceed with his next question.
“How do you love a woman like Vivienne?”
“I wish I knew. I killed her.”
***
“The blood? Not Roman’s? Did you test it?” I unwound with indifference. “Besides, my alibi checks out. Doesn’t it? I was at the club. Aphrodite Hour. Between 11 PM and 2 AM. My John and every dick in that building can place me, Vivienne Sterling. Private show, I was the main act. Do you want my dance number that night?”
Cassius blinked. My gaze cut through him, a dangerous tease unfolding at the corner of my lips.
“Two Feet. Love Is a Bitch. The song that night. And I remember you. It always takes me a while to know which of you has shown up. But when it’s you, I always remember. You were in the room too.”
***
Roman scratched his neck, searching for something buried—mercy.
“We had argued that night,” he said, barely above a whisper. “She wanted more.”
“Who wanted more?” Cassius sifted through his questions. The lie detector clicked, indifferent.
“Laure. She wanted more from you. Remember?” Roman lifted his eyes, his stare sharp enough to draw blood. His voice darkened, low and splintered. “She told me to leave Vivienne. Said I was blind. Obsessed. Too stupid to see it. She laughed the way she did when it hurt too much to cry, and said she was tired of watching me chase someone who didn’t respect me. Said I was breaking her, piece by piece, every time I touched someone else and pretended it was love.”
He paused, throat working, jaw clenched.“‘Leave her, or I’ll leave you, Cassius.’ That’s what Laure said.”
The silence between them was thick, the vision of Cassius trembling on the edge of collapse.
Roman continued with his confession. “She kept pushing. Kept taunting. But she had forgotten something: she only existed because of Vivienne. You know that, don’t you? Laure was a consequence. A wound that spoke. Vivienne gave her to me. I was only with her because I couldn’t have Vivienne. I couldn’t explain it. Not to Laure. Not to you.”
The breath in his chest stuttered. “She screamed. I screamed back. I said ‘You’re lying. Vivienne loves me. I love her. She changed my life.’ I was furious. Confused. Shaken. I’ve lived this moment before, over and over, this breaking, this bloodletting of the past.”
A shiver passed through him. “Laure was trembling. And then, out of nowhere, Vivienne appeared. She didn’t say a word. Laure just stared at her… frozen. But her eyes, there was something in them. Something already gone. The room started spinning. And then… I woke up. No Vivienne. Just this blood. Just this echo. She was gone. You were gone.”
Roman looked up now, eyes hollow and burning. Cassius barely seen. “Only I remained. And yet here we are.”
***
“Tell me, Vivienne. Who is Laure Ashe?” Cassius probed, a smile tugging at his lips.
“You know her very well,” I laughed. “I am her. Your mistress behind the mask.”
He shook his head. We’d been doing this dance for so long, I had my armour on, waiting for his cover story. Reminding myself, I was Vivienne, but he wasn’t Roman.
“Roman Sterling told us he had an affair—with a woman named Laure Ashe?”
He’d been talking to himself again. I knew what stage this was. I played my role.
“Laure Ash,” I purred, cognizant of why I chose her. “She was a master manipulator, a seductive con artist. She spun identities and desires with deadly precision, weaving deception like second nature. Beauty, intelligence, charm—she used them all to outsmart criminals and law enforcement alike. A chameleon, she reinvented herself on a whim, dancing with fate, turning betrayal into opportunity. She was Femme Fatale come to life. You know, the movie? Roman’s favourite. You could look it up. When I gave Roman the freedom clause, it was a struggle for a man like him to show interest in anyone else. So, I became someone else, just like Roman. And I chose Laure Ash for you Cassius.”
His shoulders tightened, like I was breaking the fourth wall. I was almost through. “I think you fell in love with her and Roman hated himself for it.”
***
“Roman, the blood on you. Do you remember how it got there?” Cassius pressed, his voice laced with confusion.
“No, sometimes I forget.” His hand twitched against his thigh. “Sometimes I keep secrets. Some I will never know.”
Cassius nodded, now his eyes glassy, unreadable. “Roman. What happened to Laure?”
“She left. Vivienne told her to go.”
He nodded again. His voice cracked through the silence, almost pleading, “Roman, what happened to me?”
***
It was his turn to be edited.
“You know, Cassius, people ask if you’re okay but I wish people would ask if you’re sad instead – I read that once.”
It was his turn to be neglected.
“My husband lives in pieces,” I started, maintaining eye contact. “There are days he disappears entirely, leaves home, starts a new life, and when he returns, he remembers nothing. Other times, he doesn’t leave at all, at least not physically. He just…drifts. He talks to someone else inside of him, someone who isn’t really him but sounds just like him, like you.”
It was my turn to ensure he was edited, neglected, just like I’d been. “And when he speaks, it’s like I’m watching my husband argue with his own shadow, one part trying to hold on, the other slipping further away.”
Like you, I thought to myself.
“Listen,” I continued. “I’m no doctor but I’ve been with Roman long enough to know such states. There are two: the man who can detach from himself and converse with himself—Casius and Roman. And the other who loses himself, travels, assuming his new self, and forgetting everything about his old self—a present that becomes a past—that when, or if, he recovers, has no memory of what happened, Roman as Cassius or Cassius as Roman. At least not when he’s, I mean, you, are looking at me.”
I paused. It was now his turn to be discarded.
“Laure was a fantasy. Once a year, you enjoyed each other. I enjoyed her too. And while you fell in love, I got bored, mad. I mean, you go away and you don’t remember. And if you do, you can only really ever talk about her to you. But I remember, Holly. I remember Britney. I remember Laure. I remember every Aphrodite not just with Cassius but with you, Roman too.”
I leaned forward. “I remember because I can never forget Vivienne. She’s alive in every version of me. Vivienne, who is different. Vivienne, who you struggle to love. Vivienne, who’s unhappy.”
It was now my turn to end this.
“We could keep going Roman, interrogating our lives, but the truth is this ended some time ago. You’re not dead. I’m not dead. There’s no blood. There’s no more Laure. You’re looking at me. I’m looking at you. And it’s Cassius Meyer, who doesn’t exist. And what’s sad is, after this moment I’m the only one who gets to know him forever.”
Xavierie M. is a Cameroon writer living in Namibia. She navigates linguistic landscapes as a business and is a communication consultant writing in English and French. Her work has appeared in the In Times Of Pandemic anthology produced by the Goethe-Institut in Namibia and abctales.com. She shares her passion for literature by arranging the reading lists of the Readers Red Book Club. Xavierie is also a culinary enthusiast and food curator for social and corporate events.