Authors Notes: Ah ha, here's the second chapter. It would have taken a lot longer to come out with, but Sarah had to keep bugging and bugging till I wrote the darn thing! Hehe, kidding, don't freak out! I was kidding. Anyway, here's the chapter, hope you like it!

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Meg Cabot, a long with the idea. BUT Oliver, his cousin, and his father, belong to ME. That's right, ME. Got it? Hehe. Yes, I think you do. Just…ASK if you want to use them. ASK, not TAKE.

To, Sarah

From, me

==

Ending of last chapter:

When Oliver reached the attic door he took a deep breath. It scared him to death. His father used to lock him in there when he was barely old enough to read. His mother's pleas echoed in his mind.

He shook his head roughly, then laid his hand gently on the door and pushed it open, only to reveal loads of dust and trunks.

Great, he thought. Just Great.

His eyes swept across the room. Green trunks, red trunks, endless piles of books, and dusty crowns.

Files.

Ah.

He walked toward them, but stopped dead in his tracks

==

Oliver took a step toward the object of his gaze. What the? His green eyes roamed the trunk, his breath catching. He read the name imprinted onto the gold in fine sprawled letters, twisting and turning up and down like a dance. Something buzzed in the back of his mind, as his knees became weak, threatening to collapse from underneath him.

Michael Moscovitz.

His bushy brown eyebrows came together in confusion. Where had he heard that name? There was a nagging voice in his head that made him fidget from side to side. He glanced back down at the trunk, light exploding in front of his eyes.

==

Ten years earlier…

Young Oliver's fingers were currently occupied around a small army figure. He moved his pudgy hand back and forth across his desk; his mouth whispering commands spoken from the other army figure perched just above his head. Mommy and daddy were in the room next to him, talking about grown up things- things too import for Oliver to know about.

He smiled innocently at his toys, their fake affection and happiness surrounding him in a cocoon of love. They were all he had- all he wanted. He shrugged his tiny shoulders and continued in his drill.

A loud slam and a muffled bad-word interrupted his thoughts. Oliver lifted his too-big head, his eyes filling with turmoil. Was that mommy screaming? He unclenched his fingers, his toy soldier falling swiftly to the desk, a small clatter resulting. Mommy? He uprighted himself, his brown hair falling into his eyes. What was wrong with her?

His chubby legs carried him quickly to the office door. He placed his ear up to the cherry wood door, and listened with growing interest.

"No, James, I will not!" Mommy shouted at daddy. "I will not do that to Oliver."

Oliver heard a soft chuckle. "Oh but dear, I have said so. And you will." Mommy choked and gasped in air.

Oliver leaned in closer. The door cracked slightly and he jumped back, afraid he had been discovered doing something terrible.

"I can't James…I just can't…" Oliver's innocent heart sank as he heard the despair in his mommy's voice. What did daddy want her to do to him? "Isn't it enough that I married you? Must I be your slave as well?"

Daddy sighed. "Mia, why do you insist on defying me? Weren't you taught of a man's control over a women from your grandmother?"

Mommy starting crying. "This is about him, isn't it?" Daddy's voice was soft and shallow.

She paused for a second before answering. "Who?"

"Him. Michael. Michael Moscovitz."

==

Oliver's heart contracted. Who was Michael Moscovitz and how did his mother know him? He dropped to his knees in front of the trunk. His hands raised and landed on the soft surface of the trunk, his teeth coming out to gnaw on his bottom lip.

There was a soft thudding in his chest as he prepared to open the trunk. Oliver, you wimp, He thought to himself. Just open it.

The tip of his fingers gently ran across the engraved name. A shock sprouted from them to the middle of his being. This is crazy, his mind scolded. Just do it for heaven's sake!

A deep breath of air was thrown into his lungs as he fingers grasped the dull end of the trunk and threw it open. A great wave of dust flew into his eyes, making him cough and coke. He waved his hand in front of his face, his other hand wiping at his eyes as he leaned over it.

His breath stopped.

What the hell?

There were pictures, many pictures.

Oliver slowly lowered his hand into the trunk and picked up a picture. His tanned fingers brushed across it, sending a waterfall of forgotten dust sliding to the floor. His eyes squinted as he looked at the photograph.

It was a young girl and a boy. The boy's arm was thrown around the girl's shoulder and he was leaned in close, kissing her ear. Oliver guessed that the boy was Michael, considering this was his trunk, but the girl? Who was the girl? His eyes raked over her form: slightly to skinny for her tall frame, eyes wide and innocent, hair cut short and sort of in… A yield sign? Oliver laughed at himself, but then stopped as his gaze caught hold of her smile. Soft, warm, loving. The left curve of her lips was drawn up slightly more than the other side. He knew this smile, oh he knew it.

His mother.

His mother.

His mother!

He resisted the urge to throw the picture back into the trunk and run. His hands were shaking as he plucked another picture. It was them again: Michael and his mother, but this time they were kissing. Her arms were twisted around his neck and he hands rested gently on her hips.

This is crazy, Oliver thought. Who was this man? A past lover? A slightly disturbed shiver ran through him as he thought of his mother having lovers. Gross. He shook his head and went back to the subject at hand. But what does this all mean? Does she still love him?

Oliver's past thoughts took hold on his mind. It did make sense: Every time his father was around, his mother stiffened and got that distant, longing look on her face. She never talked to him on her own will: He was always calling her into his office. So, if she still loved this Michael fellow, why did she marry his father? If I was a girl, I sure wouldn't marry him.

The corner of his mouth twisted up in a small smile as he picked up another picture. This guy doesn't look so bad. He had a nice smile, telling the world that he obviously loved life, and this woman. The tip of his finger traced over the picture as his gaze moved to his mother. His smile faltered. There were small circles of wet drops on the paper, scattered about.

Tears.

His mother had cried over this picture.

He shook his head and threw the picture back in to the trunk, then slammed it shut. He was going to find out who this Michael character was, and demand why he hurt his mother.

==

Oliver's feet took him swiftly down the halls of his home, his fingers grasping the files for his mother. Why had his mother cried over that picture? If she loved him so much, why did she marry his father? Unless he had died. A shot of fear ran through him. Had he died? Had he died and left his mother all alone. Or, left her?

Another shot ran through him, but this time one of hatred.

It doesn't make sense.

He sighed and turned a corner, stepping past the kitchen. At that moment, all his thoughts and concerns flew out the window as the most wonderful smell filled his nostrils. He took back his steps and pivoted into the kitchen.

Mmm..

His eyes scanned for the source; Miranda. He walked towards her, a bright smile bestowed upon his face.

"Good evening, Miranda."

She turned and smiled. "Good even'in, Ol'ver! Would you like…Get yer hand's off those there cook'es! Ol'ver!" She smacked his hand away from the cookies.

Oliver faked a pout. "Just one?"

"Not ev'n one you li'le mooch!" She turned him around and pushed him in the opposite direction, bellowing at him not to touch a thing till dinner.

Oliver laughed and walked out of the room, his stomach rumbling. He went through the door to the other part of the kitchen. He smiled and reached for the refrigerator door handle, but realized he had forgotten his files, and turned to get them.

But smacked straight into a soft form. "Ahhh!!" He screamed as he lost his balance and fell flat on his butt, wincing.

"Oh!" Came a shrieked reply from the other being. Oliver lifted his head and parted his lips to give a quick "Sorry" but froze. His eyes made first contact with the bluest, deepest eyes he had ever seen, A cute button nose, and full, pink lips. His heart stopped beating in his chest as the girl glared at him, her mouth moving in harsh words, deaf against his ears.

He shook his head trying to understand her words, but failed as his eyes continued to roam her. "I…" He heard her say, but stopped listening. Her hair; it was beautiful. It was brown and curly, coming to about her shoulders. Her shoulders were small and bony, sliding down to the slimmest waist he had even seen, then flared out to perfect hips, and long legs that went on forever.

He felt wrong just staring at her like this, but he couldn't stop! His blood was rushing in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest. She was beautiful. Oliver couldn't think of someone he had seen this beautiful. It was like she was a gift from God. Gorgeous to the-

"…Cousin."

Oliver was thrown harshly out of his trance as his eyes flew to hers. Cousin? He went stiff and scooted back. "Excuse me?"

She smiled that radiant smile and nodded her head, her anger obviously forgotten. Her curls bobbing on her shoulders as her head shook. "That's right, I'm your cousin." She leaned down and offered him her hand. His hand lifted automatically and gripped hers. She pulled him off the ground, and smiled at him. "Sorry."

He shrugged his shoulders, appalled at himself. "No problem…" he said slowly, as he turned to the refrigerator. He opened it and leaned down to look inside, stealing glances at the girl. "Would you like something to…Wait a minute!" He shot up straight, banging his head on the top and cursing under his breath. He glared at her, "I don't have a cousin!"

"Yes, you do." She walked past him and took a peach out of the refrigerator. The peach looked bright in comparison to her small, creamy hands. She brought it to her lips and bit down on it, tilting her head to the side as she chewed. "And I'm it." She turned and walked out of the room.