Exhibit 5

A couple of days and several normal phone calls from my mother later, and it was Friday.

I was excited when our driver dropped us off at the townhouse after school. Another week finished and a weekend in Connecticut to look forward to.

I raced to my room, double checking the packing I had done the night before. Realizing I had thoroughly packed, I sat down at my desk and clicked on my Mac. I hadn't had a moment to check my e-mail all week, and so when I did I was surprised to find several Facebook updates, a message from my father, several chain messages from my bored grandmother in New Jersey, and then one message from an e-mail I was not familiar with, but which looked oddly recognizable.

I clicked on it first and immediately realized who it was from.

Cassidy-

Thank you so much for the pictures. They are wonderful; you have quite a gift for photography.

-Andy & Max

As I scrolled down the e-mail, noticing my pictures had reattached, I looked at them once more. As I studied Andy's elated face as she played with her son, I noticed something shiny that caught my attention.

Was that a shiny bracelet around her wrist…

"Cassidy, the cars here." My sister interrupted my thoughts.

I quickly pulled my laptop into my bag and raced down the stairs after my sister, unable to shake the feeling that I had seen that bracelet before…

~*~

Anything was better than Kristin, and so when the car arrived to pick us up - twenty minutes later than our dad was supposed to pick us up - we were equally relieved. I could speak for both of us, however, by saying that we hadn't been this excited to leave for our father's since we were perhaps six and the whole divorce process had just gone underway between our mother and he.

It had been, perhaps, the messiest divorce our mother had undergone because of us. My mother had fought tooth and nail to gain almost full custody of my sister and me. I don't remember much of the divorce, but I do remember the tumultuous relationship.

In front of us, they were amiable. There were only little arguments. From what I can remember, for I was five at the time, my father would usually disapprove of something my mother wore or did. And he would nag at her for the smallest things. He was ten years her senior and he acted the superior in every way; and he'd made my mom feel inferior, which she had hated. My mother never liked to feel second-rate to anyone.

Thus, behind the scenes, behind the van Ziegler and Priestly façade, they were a horrible couple. I remember one night in particular that stood out among the others.

I had heard them bickering on the first floor balcony.

Climbing out of bed, I had crept to the banister. Laying flat on my stomach, I peered over the edge, my head resting between two white posts. I could vaguely make out my father. His back was turned to me and he was yelling, yelling about things I couldn't even begin to comprehend. He was hovering above my mother, his balding head a sad sight as he raised his voice, verbally backing my mother into a wall.

She had come into view, and I had caught a glimpse of her face. It was so sad, white, drained and devoid of anything, any emotion. I wasn't entirely sure, but as she glanced away from my father I could have sworn I could have seen tears swimming in the corner of her eyes. She fought back, however. Her voice only slightly rose from its normal soft tone as she defended herself.

When I glanced up, I found my sister at my side. She sleepily rubbed her eyes and we exchanged a weary look at one another. She crawled next to me and peered down, watching as our father more violently threatened my mother, and she more violently fought back.

The only actual words I remember from that night were when my dad announced he was leaving.

"No," he aggressively moved my mother's hand away from his arm, where it was clenching on to him for dear life. She didn't want him to go. "I'm leaving, Miranda." And with that he'd turned to go and my mother had attempted to grab him, desperately as he went, but he'd just kept walking and she had just kept grasping empty air.

We could hear his footsteps moving heavily down the stairs, the click of a lock, and the opening and closing of the door.

We watched, mortified, as our mother crumbled to the ground. She appeared to wither, like a dying flower.

I had had the nerve to fly down the stairs, not at all liking the image of my mother on the ground, consumed by tears. She had just looked so…not like my mother.

I had reached her, and I had touched her, and she had recoiled from me and I had whimpered, tears forming in my own eyes.

When she realized I was standing beside her, my sister close behind, she sat up and wiped at her eyes. She hadn't wanted to be seen like this, not by us.

I had watched as she looked mortified at us. She had been so confused, so hurt. Our mother appeared to not know what to do and that made her even more frustrated. She let out a strangled sob, and, knowing we weren't about to leave her, she reached out her arms for us.

We went to her and wrapped our arms around her and she had held us as she cried.

That was one of the only times we had ever been allowed to sleep with her. We had all cuddled that night in her huge bed, our mother glad to have us near her.

That was the only time I had ever seen her that broken. She usually never cried in front of us; in fact I wasn't even sure she cried at all anymore.

The other divorces she had just shut herself off to her husband's when she had known the relationship was going south. It had been quite sad to see her pull away.

Regardless, the divorce from our father was horrible. My mother had had to really fight to keep us, and she had gained almost complete custody. We only had to go to our dad's every other weekend. And usually it wasn't even that often.

Most of the time "something" would come up at the last minute, and we would be forced to stay the weekend with our mom. Though I couldn't really complain. Going to dad's wasn't any worse or any better than being at mom's.

They were both so distant.

Take for instance right now. Dad didn't even come to pick us up. He had had his driver come and get us.

We would have to make the two hour trip to Connecticut without our father, or his trophy wife, Carrie, to entertain us.

Not that we'd want them to anyway.

~*~

An hour into the ride, I felt my phone ringing.

Pulling it out, I realized it was mom.

"Bubsy?" She inquired when I picked up. At least she'd gotten the right person, I'd been weary that she'd make the same mistake as she had earlier in the week, but so far she'd gotten it right every time she'd called.

"Yes, mom." I answered. Caroline peered over at me, pausing the movie she'd been watching on her iPod, knowing it was our mom on the phone.

"Did your father pick you up on time?" She asked, ever the concerned parent.

"Well…he didn't exactly pick us up, but his driver did."

"So very like him." She sighed. I could hear her irritation at him in her voice.

"Yes," I agreed. "But at least he didn't cancel like last time."

"True. But, I don't like you two driving all the way to Connecticut without him in the car with you. Who knows what kind of record your father's driver has." She was getting more and more on edge by the minute.

"Mother, his driver has never been anything but sweet to us. We're fine." I quickly pacified her increasing foul mood.

"Well I will still be having a word with him." She decisively stated.

"Are you coming home tonight?" I asked, trying to veer her off topic. My sister was motioning for me to let her hear what was happening, and so I flipped on the speakerphone.

"No, I won't be back until Sunday evening." She sniffed.

"I wish we were home." Caroline entered the conversation.

"Why is that, bubsy?" Our mother asked, daring to sound bored by the fact she was talking to her daughter's.

"I don't want to go to dad's and Kati's birthday party is tomorrow night." Caroline groaned.

"Well, it is unfortunate that you have to, by law, go to your father's-when he decides he wants you-" this part was said nearly under her breath, but we heard, "but rules are rules and we must not break them. Right, darlings?"

"Right." We chorused, sadly, together.

"Well, girls, I must be going. I have a dinner this evening with photographers from Australia. They would like to host a shoot for Runway, though I doubt they'll have good enough ideas for the magazine." She blandly stated. My mother was so hard to please! I was glad I was her daughter and not a business colleague.

"All right, good night, mom." We once again spoke together and our mother let out an amused 'hmm'.

"Good night, darlings."

And with that she hung up.

We still had forty-five minutes of the trip left.

~*~

And when we arrived at la mansion in Connecticut, daddy was missing and Carrie was lounging in the dining room with a martini and her little purse dog, Paris.

"Hello, girls." She gushed and gave us air kisses. We politely returned them, but soon found a way to escape her presence. But before we could go rush to our rooms, she stopped us. "Have you two eaten?"

"Yes."

"No."

We'd spoken at the same time, and unfortunately not in unison. I elbowed my sister and she nodded, "Yes, we have."

"Oh, all right. Well run along then." She appeared to toast us with her martini glass and I raised my eyebrow. A bored look appeared on her face as she sipped the alcohol and watched us walk away.

We were so going to have to find a way to prank her later.

We separated ways at the top of the stairs and I bounded down the hall to my deep purple room. It was huge, bigger than my room in New York. It had a canopy bed and a huge area rug that gave the room a regal look.

I tossed my Juicy Couture duffel bag onto the bed and pulled out my Mac. Flipping it open, I browsed through my iTunes library until I found a song I wanted to listen to. While it played in the background, I realized my sister had entered my room and had found water balloons.

"Oh no," my eyes widened.

"Oh yes." She grinned and tossed a balloon up in the air, catching it as it came back down. "If we throw them from the balcony she'll never know what hit her."

My smile spread across my whole face and through boughts of laughter we made our way to the balcony. It overlooked the dining room, where Carrie sat, along with the living room and part of our father's study.

With practiced precision, and good hand-eye coordination from years of playing softball, my sister tossed one water balloon right after another and they ALL hit the target.

Carrie screamed, but was too occupied to figure out where the balloons were coming from.

We quickly raced off, back to my room and quietly shut and locked the door behind us. We fell onto the bed, unable to hold back our laughter.

Oh how we loved Carrie.

In no time she was pounding on our door, shouting obscenities at us, threatening that if we didn't open the door and apologize she would call our father and have him take us back to New York.

I snorted at that, for he would never drive us all the way back to New York. There was no chance of that happening. Plus, if he was "working" he wouldn't be reachable.

We rode out her empty threats, unable to take any of them seriously, and burst into laughter every time she came up with a new one, even more preposterous than the one before. She soon left and our laughter subsided. We lay back in my huge, king sized bed and flipped on the TV.

"Hey," my sister questioned, reaching for the remote, "why did you say we'd eaten dinner?" She flipped the channel, trying to find something interesting to watch.

"Because, we're going to sneak down later and eat whatever we want. Duh." I mindlessly reminded her.

"Oh, right." She nodded, finding a show we both agreed upon.

~*~

Our dad did not return home until we were fast asleep.

He didn't come in to say 'good night' or acknowledge our presence, as far as I knew.

Instead, we woke up to him already absent.

Carrie was in the kitchen, already with martini in hand and Paris in the other. "Morning girls." Her tone was disdainful; she was weary of us already. I inwardly smiled. "Your father will be back soon. He's gone to check on his restaurant and he wants to take you to Boston with him tonight for dinner."

Caroline and I exchanged a perturbed glance at one another and then frowned at Carrie. "Why?" We asked, accidentally in unison.

"I have no idea."

~*~

And then we were in the car. With our father. Who instead of talking to us felt the need to talk on his phone the entire way to Boston.

We were going to his restaurant. He, apparently, had some business to take care of, and he'd thought we could 'bond' while he worked.

Though his idea of bonding was ignoring us as we drove for a good hour.

I studied the side of his face from my seat in the back of his Jaguar. He looked so much older than he had years ago. His hair was graying and almost gone. He had dark sunglasses on, shielding his bloodshot, tired eyes. He looked larger than he had, as if he'd gained weight.

And it was then that I realized I was glad my mother had not stayed with this man.

I had no idea what had attracted her to him in the first place.

When we, finally, arrived at the restaurant-Pomodoro (named after the Italian word for 'tomato')-our father acknowledged us.

"I have a table waiting for you. I'll be in the back conference room if you need me, but I would like for you two to not interrupt me. And please behave yourselves. That stunt you pulled last night on Carrie was very immature, and I expect more out of both of you." He didn't even look at us as he chastised us. "You can order whatever you like, it's on the house. I should be done in an hour." And with that he got out of the car and began heading towards the restaurant.

Caroline and I exchanged a perturbed look at one another and then scrambled to follow him before he could lock us in.

We made it to the large oak front door of the restaurant and stepped inside. The hostess seemed to know who we were and immediately led us to a table towards the back. We were slightly hidden from the rest of the restaurant, and were surrounded by beautiful indoor plants that made it feel like we were in a dimly lit jungle. The inside of my father's restaurant was beautiful. The creaky oak floors seemed to add to the atmosphere and the wooden tables supplemented the décor of the space.

I had never been to the restaurant in Boston, but I could very well say it was my favorite.

"Well, what should we order, if we can order whatever we want?" Caroline hummed, head already buried in the menu.

I glanced down at my own menu and was in awe at the very high cost of each dish. "I say we order the most expensive thing on the menu."

Caroline grinned and I copied the infectious, evil smile.

In no time the waitress had brought us water and a hors d'oeuvre.

I glanced around the room, sipping my water, when I happened to spot someone who looked very, very familiar sitting several tables away.

I wasn't entirely sure, but it looked like it might be…

TBC....review s'il vous plait. :D