Chapter 294 What If That Happens to Him Someday?

Chapter 294 What If That Happens to Him Someday?
OLIVIA'S POV

The past five months had transformed everything. What began as a single boutique on Melrose Avenue had blossomed into a budding empire, with two additional O&E Designs locations in LA's most fashionable districts. Each morning I woke up with a renewed sense of purpose, fueled by caffeine and ambition.

I'd thrown myself headfirst into the business—negotiating with banks for commercial loans, establishing relationships with fabric suppliers, and managing a growing staff. And something peculiar kept happening: doors that should have remained firmly closed swung open with surprising ease. My unique design aesthetic had caught the attention of LA's fashion elite faster than I'd anticipated.

"It's happening," I whispered, reviewing another enthusiastic email from a high-profile client whose custom gown had generated buzz throughout her social circle. My fingerprints were on every success—each sketch, each stitch, each carefully curated collection. I'd built this brand with my designs, my vision, and it was deeply satisfying to see the fashion world finally taking notice.

This morning, Mark and I were heading to check on the construction progress at my newest location. As we prepared to leave the flagship store, he reached for my portfolio and sample bags with exaggerated gallantry.

"Allow me," he offered with a theatrical bow.

Mia rolled her eyes from behind the counter. "Such a gentleman. Does that routine actually work on women?"

"Every single time," Mark winked, completely unfazed.

I gathered my phone and tablet, glancing back at Mia. "Remember to tell Claire—"

"To organize the fabric samples for the new collection and make sure the models arrive at the studio by three for fitting," Mia finished with practiced efficiency. "Got it, boss."

The construction site buzzed with activity—workers installing custom shelving while electricians wired the lighting system I'd specified. The interior designer approached us with digital renderings on her tablet.

"We've adjusted the layout slightly," she explained, swiping through images. "The display area felt cramped, so I'm suggesting we remove this wall to create better flow."

As we debated floor plans, a young woman approached hesitantly. She had eager eyes and that unmistakable art-student look—creativity carefully contained in sensible clothing.

"Excuse me," she said. "Are you the designer for this space? I'm Emily Taylor, fashion design major at FIDM. I was wondering if you might have internship opportunities."

Mark gave me an amused sideways glance before turning to her. "She's not the store designer. This is Olivia Peterson, founder and chief designer of O&E Designs."

Emily's eyes widened with recognition. "Oh my god! I follow you on Instagram! I've watched your journey since Paris—how you came back and built everything from scratch!"

I smiled, genuinely touched by her enthusiasm. A strange mix of pride and impostor syndrome washed over me—was I really inspiring young designers now? Just five years ago, I was a sales assitant with stars in my eyes, dreaming of being a designer.

"Thank you, but I'm not conducting interviews today. Send your portfolio to our work email." I handed her my business card. "We're always looking for fresh talent."

Back in the car, Mark couldn't contain his amusement. "What happened to personally inspecting all your stores every day? That promise lasted, what, one month?"

I shot him a mock-threatening glare. "I could fire you for gross insubordination, you know."

"You'd miss me too much."

"I do check on all my stores daily," I defended myself. "On social media and sales reports. That counts."

We stopped at a red light near the Arts District Medical Center. I noticed a silver-haired man in a hospital gown stepping outside, looking disoriented. A nurse followed closely behind, gently trying to guide him back inside.

Suddenly, a car swerved erratically onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing a street lamp. The commotion seemed to trigger something in the elderly man. He broke away from the nurse and rushed toward our car.

"Elizabeth!" he cried, pressing his palms against my window. "Elizabeth, is that you?"

I froze, staring into his desperate eyes—vacant yet somehow intensely focused, filled with both recognition and confusion. My heart hammered against my ribs, an irrational fear gripping me.

"My daughter," he sobbed, his breath fogging the glass. "Elizabeth... someone took her away. They said she wasn't real."

The hospital staff caught up quickly. A nurse gently pulled him back while a security guard stepped between us.

"Mr. Perez, come back inside," the female nurse said soothingly. "We'll help you contact Elizabeth."

I watched as they guided him back toward the building, offering him water and medication.

Mark drove in silence for several blocks before asking, "You okay?"

I wasn't. Something about the encounter had shaken me to my core. I felt exposed, vulnerable, as if the universe had sent me a warning disguised as coincidence. "What if that happens to David someday?" I whispered, voicing my deepest fear. "What if all that remains of him are fragmented memories of a life he thinks he lived?"

"That's not going to happen," Mark said firmly.

"You don't know that." My voice cracked slightly. "That man—Mr. Perez—he was someone's father once. Someone's husband. Maybe he ran a business, had dreams, made plans. And now all he has left is the ghost of a daughter who might not even exist."

I stared out the window, watching the city blur past. "David's headaches, his memory issues... what if they're just the beginning? What if one day he looks at Ethan and doesn't recognize his own son?"

Mark turned to me. "That's a lot of 'what ifs,' Olivia."

I nodded, trying to push the image of the confused old man from my mind. But his desperate eyes stayed with me—a haunting reminder of how fragile our minds, our very identities, really are. Despite my growing success, the empire I was building, I felt suddenly powerless against time and biology—forces no amount of determination or talent could overcome.

As we pulled up to the flagship store, I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. There were designs to finalize, staff to manage, and a growing business to run.

The future—with all its uncertainties—would have to wait. But the shadow of what I'd witnessed lingered, a quiet reminder that success and stability could be as fleeting as memory itself.