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I have long toyed with the idea of putting together a short few chapters about this story we were robbed of when Alexis bought the publishing company. Here at last, a sample of the revised manuscript (well, my fan fictional account of it anyway) of “Sister Dearest” dictated to me (again, fiction) on the deathbed of the fabulous Caress Morell:
Cassandra Morrell ran furiously through the main corridor into the vestibule, chandelier light reflecting across her Harry Winston diamond necklace. Her rage had brought her to the point of no return. Her hand, wet from spilled Dom Perignon, bleeding from attempting to use the broken Baccarat glass as a knife, cutting into her palm. She didn’t know a trail of ruby red blood dripped onto her Givenchy couture and down onto the priceless Oriental rug.
She pushed the double glass doors open and leapt onto the terrace, moonlight bathing her face as if welcoming her to howl into the night like a crazed werewolf. Her vision was blocked by seething red. In her furry, she bounded off the main terrace and ran through the west garden. The security system was not completely installed yet and lights had not been set up. Save for midnight moonlight, the path before her was dark and barely visible. She did not need to see however, where she was going. Her anger would carry her to the bungalow, the art studio in the back of the property. The private cottage her sister used to convene with her muse amid oil and canvass, and the young men, gardeners, drivers, workers on the estate, she bedded while her husband was away on business trips.
This time, her sister had gone too far. Alexis had done it this time. She seduced the wrong man, and Cassandra was going to kill her. He was the man Cassandra loved more than anything or anyone in the world. Alexis, vicious and spiteful, knew this and toyed with his lust anyway. Cassandra was going to use the gun she had stolen, and she was going to kill her sister tonight, in bed on top of, or underneath the man she took away from her. It took Cassandra a little while to figure it out, but she knew her very married, pregnant sister was bedding down every man she could get her legs around. This man was off limits however, and Cassandra was going to shoot her heart out.
The silence of midnight was broken with the near rabid barking of security dogs in the distance, and a glimmer from a security officers' flashlight. They were looking for her. She had fled from the dinner party adjourned to the library for brandy, enraged and on the hunt for her unknowing victim. Everyone saw her. Everyone knew she had finally gone over the edge. She smashed her glass against the fireplace hearth, Ellen Carrington gazing down from her oil painting above. Her simple soft smile, knowing eyes giving sympathy for young Cassandra Morrell.
“That bloody bitch is going to die tonight. I am not going to let her to get away with this another goddammed night!” Mascara dragged tears slid down the porcelain of her face. She gripped the gun tight. From behind emerging from the house, she could her the attendees to the party begin to emerge. “Cassie!” She kept going. “Cassandra, stop!” Their warnings cascaded up into the night.
She reached the art studio and grabbed the doorknob and pushed the door open, “Alexis!”
She made her way inside, only the glimmer of the burning fireplace lighting the room. “I know you’re in here with him...whore! I know you’re here with…”
Reaching the top of the steps into the raised loft, Cassandra aimed the pistol and fired.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The door behind Cassandra flew open and the light switch went on. Brandt Carrington and Brown Mersham stood in the doorway, horrified by the sight before them. Carrington spoke up, “Cassie…”
Cassandra gazed upon the bloodied man in the bed, alone, nude, dead. It was not her sister she had shot and killed. It was the man she loved.
Cassandra Morrell ran furiously through the main corridor into the vestibule, chandelier light reflecting across her Harry Winston diamond necklace. Her rage had brought her to the point of no return. Her hand, wet from spilled Dom Perignon, bleeding from attempting to use the broken Baccarat glass as a knife, cutting into her palm. She didn’t know a trail of ruby red blood dripped onto her Givenchy couture and down onto the priceless Oriental rug.
She pushed the double glass doors open and leapt onto the terrace, moonlight bathing her face as if welcoming her to howl into the night like a crazed werewolf. Her vision was blocked by seething red. In her furry, she bounded off the main terrace and ran through the west garden. The security system was not completely installed yet and lights had not been set up. Save for midnight moonlight, the path before her was dark and barely visible. She did not need to see however, where she was going. Her anger would carry her to the bungalow, the art studio in the back of the property. The private cottage her sister used to convene with her muse amid oil and canvass, and the young men, gardeners, drivers, workers on the estate, she bedded while her husband was away on business trips.
This time, her sister had gone too far. Alexis had done it this time. She seduced the wrong man, and Cassandra was going to kill her. He was the man Cassandra loved more than anything or anyone in the world. Alexis, vicious and spiteful, knew this and toyed with his lust anyway. Cassandra was going to use the gun she had stolen, and she was going to kill her sister tonight, in bed on top of, or underneath the man she took away from her. It took Cassandra a little while to figure it out, but she knew her very married, pregnant sister was bedding down every man she could get her legs around. This man was off limits however, and Cassandra was going to shoot her heart out.
The silence of midnight was broken with the near rabid barking of security dogs in the distance, and a glimmer from a security officers' flashlight. They were looking for her. She had fled from the dinner party adjourned to the library for brandy, enraged and on the hunt for her unknowing victim. Everyone saw her. Everyone knew she had finally gone over the edge. She smashed her glass against the fireplace hearth, Ellen Carrington gazing down from her oil painting above. Her simple soft smile, knowing eyes giving sympathy for young Cassandra Morrell.
“That bloody bitch is going to die tonight. I am not going to let her to get away with this another goddammed night!” Mascara dragged tears slid down the porcelain of her face. She gripped the gun tight. From behind emerging from the house, she could her the attendees to the party begin to emerge. “Cassie!” She kept going. “Cassandra, stop!” Their warnings cascaded up into the night.
She reached the art studio and grabbed the doorknob and pushed the door open, “Alexis!”
She made her way inside, only the glimmer of the burning fireplace lighting the room. “I know you’re in here with him...whore! I know you’re here with…”
Reaching the top of the steps into the raised loft, Cassandra aimed the pistol and fired.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
The door behind Cassandra flew open and the light switch went on. Brandt Carrington and Brown Mersham stood in the doorway, horrified by the sight before them. Carrington spoke up, “Cassie…”
Cassandra gazed upon the bloodied man in the bed, alone, nude, dead. It was not her sister she had shot and killed. It was the man she loved.
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