Chapter 298 So This Wasn't Really a Suicide Attempt?

Chapter 298 So This Wasn't Really a Suicide Attempt?
OLIVIA'S POV

I stepped out of the gleaming office building into the bright Los Angeles afternoon, adjusting my sunglasses against the glare. The "StyleTalk Live" interview had gone well—another in my seemingly endless parade of media appearances since becoming known as the "Sustainable Fashion Pioneer" Olivia Peterson. My memoir had transformed me into someone media outlets actively pursued rather than just another designer in the crowded fashion landscape.

Though repeating my personal story was becoming repetitive, the brand exposure made it worthwhile. Each interview brought more attention to O&E Designs and further validated my position in the industry.

Kevin, my driver—a luxury I was still getting used to—opened the car door with a professional smile.

"Home, Ms. Peterson?" he asked.

"Yes, home," I replied, my voice slightly hoarse from talking so much.

I sank into the plush leather seat, already mentally planning my evening. After tucking Ethan in, I'd review Instagram reactions to our collection. The social media buzz had been overwhelming since the book launch.

My phone rang—Linda's number. She rarely called unless something important was happening with David. I felt a prickle of unease as I answered.

"Linda? Is everything okay?"

Her voice came through tight with tension. "Olivia, you need to come to the hospital."

My heart plummeted. "Hospital? What happened?"

"David... he tried to hurt himself this morning. He's stable now, but—"

I cut her off, panic rising. "Which hospital?"

As she gave me the details, I instructed Kevin to change direction. My mind raced chaotically. David—strong, commanding David—attempting suicide? The man who once controlled boardrooms with a single glance, who built an empire through sheer force of will, reduced to this? The disconnect between the David I married and the David lying in a hospital bed was too vast to comprehend.

The drive to the hospital stretched eternally. I stared out the window, watching palm trees blur past, memories flooding back—David laughing during our honeymoon, David furious during our arguments, David holding Ethan with uncertain tenderness. Had I failed him by focusing so intently on rebuilding my own life? The guilt and resentment battled within me, neither winning.

When we finally arrived, I barely waited for the car to stop before climbing out and rushing through the entrance. Having visited David during his previous health crises, I navigated the corridors with practiced efficiency until I reached the specialist consultation room.

The neurologist's face was grave as he delivered the devastating news.

"His brain is experiencing widespread deterioration," the doctor explained. "The cognitive impairment is severe. He likely wasn't fully aware of what he was doing when he harmed himself."

Each word landed like a physical blow. "So this wasn't really a suicide attempt?"

"Not in the traditional sense. He probably doesn't have the capacity to understand the concept of self-harm or decision-making anymore."

I nodded mechanically, trying to process this new reality. The strong, brilliant man I had once loved—the father of my child—was disappearing more rapidly than we'd anticipated.

Walking toward David's room felt like moving through water, each step heavier than the last. Outside his door, Linda stood by the window, visibly distressed.

Inside, David lay pale against white sheets, his arms connected to various monitoring devices. The antiseptic smell mingled with the faint scent of the cologne he still wore—the last fragment of the man he used to be. The rhythmic beeping of medical equipment echoed the thundering of my heart. My legs weakened, and I lowered myself into the chair beside his bed.

I couldn't speak, couldn't express the shock reverberating through me. I could only stare at his lifeless expression and the needle-marked arms of him.

DAVID'S POV

I didn't know who I was.

They told me my name was David, but it meant nothing. Each morning brought the same emptiness, the same confusion. It was like waking up in a stranger's body, in a stranger's life, with everyone expecting me to remember things that had disappeared into darkness.

There was a woman who visited often. Elegant, fashionable. When I woke, she was arranging flowers by the window. When I drifted to sleep, she was sitting quietly beside me. I didn't know her name, but her presence felt right somehow. She moved with grace, her fingers delicate as they adjusted the blooms, and something deep inside me recognized her.

"Good morning," she said that day, her voice gentle. "Did you sleep well?"

I tried to respond, but the words tangled. "Yes... Samantha?"

Her smile faltered slightly. "It's Olivia. I'm Olivia."

Of course. Olivia. I tried to remember, but I knew I wouldn't. The frustration burned inside me—another failure, another name slipping through the cracks in my mind. Still, she adjusted my pillows and touched my hand briefly. Her eyes held something complex—concern, regret, something more I couldn't name.

I wished I could thank her properly for coming, but my thoughts scattered like leaves in wind.

Sometimes she brought a small boy with her. He had curly hair and looked at me with curious eyes—eyes that somehow mirrored my own. When he called me "Daddy," I shook my head in confusion. I was nobody's father, was I? The boy's face fell, and something sharp stung inside my chest. The pain was surprising—one clear feeling in my foggy existence.

I reached out to touch his curls. They felt familiar under my fingers, though I couldn't explain why. His small hand sometimes held mine, and in those moments, I felt anchored to something important.

Olivia—I remembered her name that time—gave me a journal. Said I used to write in it. I stared at the leather-bound book, trying to recognize my own handwriting filling its pages. Bold strokes and confident loops that once belonged to me now appeared as foreign as ancient hieroglyphics. I picked up the pen, wanting to capture my scattered thoughts, but it felt foreign in my hand. I'd forgotten how to form letters. Another piece of myself, gone.

Even as my mind emptied, one certainty remained: this woman Olivia mattered. I didn't know our history or why she spent hours by my side when I couldn't even remember her name from one visit to the next. But when she sat near me, stroking the back of my hand, speaking softly about the boy's day, her voice painted colorful pictures in my gray world.

In that emptiness where memories should have been, she was the only real thing. And somehow, that seemed enough.