Until the Last Beat
โคทClay Beresford has spent his life outrunning a failing heart. You have spent yours hiding an illness no one can see. As CEO and assistant, you're experts at carrying impossible burdens aloneโuntil one forgotten medical file changes everything. Between boardrooms, hospital rooms, and borrowed time, two people who never learned to ask for help discover that love isn't about fixing each other. It's about staying.
โคท fluff, bit of angst? Not a typical ceo falls for assistant, but two people who think being vulnerable is a burden, boogsh. 2k words
Clay Beresford was the kind of man magazines loved.
Young billionaire, Handsome, Charismatic, Brilliant.
Everyone thought Clay had everything.
What nobody knew was that every success came with a ticking clock inside his chest.
His heart condition hadn't disappeared. The surgeries, treatments, and medications had bought him time, but not certainty. Every board meeting, every international flight, every sleepless night carried risks his doctors constantly reminded him about.
Clay hated being reminded.
So he worked.
And worked.
And worked.
The only person who seemed capable of keeping up with him was his executive assistant, you.
Frighteningly organized, and somehow managed to keep Clay's impossible schedule from collapsing. You knew which investors needed flattery, which executives needed pressure, and exactly how many minutes it took Clay to lose patience.
You were also hiding something
An autoimmune disease where the immune system mistakenly attacks healthy tissues. Some days it caused exhaustion so severe you could barely lift your arms. Other days it attacked your joints, kidneys, or lungs.
Yet nobody at the Company knew
Especially not Clay.
Because in a company that worshipped performance, weakness felt dangerous.
In your first three weeks, you'd memorized his schedule better than he had.
Within six weeks, you started leaving coffee outside his office exactly fifteen minutes before his meetings.
Within three months, you'd become indispensable. You knew which investors irritated him, and when he was pretending to be fine after losing another night's sleep over the company.
Which was a problem.
Because Clay found himself noticing things.
Like how you occasionally gripped the edge of your desk when standing.
How you disappeared into the restroom during long conferences.
How your smile sometimes looked forced.
How you were always tired.
He recognized the signs because he saw them every morning in the mirror.
--
Every month, your test results got a little worse.
Most days you looked perfectly healthy.
You smiled through meetings. Answered emails. Organized board presentations.
You learned how to hide the tremor in your hands.
How to sit down before the dizziness became noticeable.
How to excuse yourself to the restroom when the pain becomes unbearable.
Nobody noticed.
Especially not Clay.
Or at least, that's what you thought.
It happened during a board meeting.
One moment you were standing beside the conference table, taking notes.
The next, the room tilted, voices blurred, your vision darkened.
You barely managed to catch yourself against the wall.
"Meeting's over." Clay's voice cut through the room.
Executives immediately protested. "We haven't finished discussingโ"
"I said it's over."
The room fell silent.
You hated that everyone was staring. You hated that Clay was already crossing the room toward you.
"I'm fine," you whispered.
"You nearly fell."
"I just skipped lunch."
His eyes narrowed.
A look you had seen him use on competitors before destroying them in negotiations.
It was somehow worse directed at you.
Clay stood nearby with his jaw clenched.
You weren't fine.
And you both knew it.
The gala had stretched well past midnight.
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, cameras flashed at every turn, and Clay Beresford had spent the last four hours smiling through conversations with investors and executives.
You, as always, stayed a step behind him, discreetly reminding him of names, schedules, and who he still needed to greet before the evening ended.
By the time the event was over, your feet ached, your head throbbed, and all you wanted was your bed.
"I'll have the driver take you home," Clay said as the two of you stepped outside into the cool night.
"You don't have to."
"I'm already leaving."
You hesitated before giving in with a tired nod.
"...Thanks."
The city lights blurred outside the tinted windows as the car rolled through quiet streets.
Neither of you spoke much.
Clay loosened his tie while answering a few emails on his phone. You leaned against the window, exhaustion finally catching up to you.
"You okay?" he asked without looking up.
"Mhm."
"You've been quiet."
"Just tired."
He glanced over. "You looked pale halfway through the gala."
"I skipped dessert. Tragic, I know right?"
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "You always joke when I ask serious questions."
"It's a talent."
The conversation faded after that.
When the car stopped outside your apartment building, you gathered your purse and heels in a hurry. "Goodnight, Mr. Beresford."
"...Clay."
You looked back.
"Goodnight, Clay."
He watched until you disappeared inside before telling the driver to head home.
--
The next morning, Clay climbed into the backseat, coffee in one hand and his tablet in the other.
As the driver pulled away, something caught his eye.
A plain manila folder rested on the floor where you had been sitting.
He reached down.
Your name was printed neatly on the tab. He intended to hand it back without another thought. But as he picked it up, several papers slipped loose onto the leather seat.
One page landed face up.
His eyes caught a familiar logo at the top.
A hospital.
He instinctively reached to gather the papersโ
Then froze.
Patient Name
Below it were words that made his stomach tighten.
Diagnostic Summary.
His brows knitted together.
This wasn't a routine checkup. He skimmed only enough to understand that you weren't just overworked.
You were sick. Not with a cold. Not with exhaustion.
The report detailed months of appointments, specialist consultations, abnormal test results, medications...
The dates stretched back nearly a year.
Clay slowly lowered the papers into his lap.
A year.
You had been sitting across from him in meetings, organizing billion-dollar deals, reminding him to eat lunch...
...while carrying this completely alone.
His grip tightened around the folder. His gaze remained fixed on the page, his jaw set.
Finally, he closed the folder with careful hands.
There was only one thing on his mind.
Why hadn't you told him?
--
Later that evening, you found him in his office overlooking the city.
The lights of Manhattan glittered below.
Clay stood by the windows, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up.
"Is there something you need to tell me? If so, better tell me now."
You frown, confused, "Not that I know of, Sir?"
"You've been sick for a year." He stated.
You froze. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then tell me why my assistant keeps visiting a specialist every Tuesday at seven-thirty in the morning."
Your heart stopped. "You had me followed?"
"No." His jaw tightened.
"You dropped a file in the car last night."
Silence. The kind that felt dangerous.
Not because Clay was angry.
Because he looked hurt.
"You should've told me."
You stared at the floor. "Why?"
The question surprised him.
"Because you work for me."
"Exactly." An exhausted laugh escaped you. "People don't invest in liabilities, Clay."
Something shifted in his expression.
For the first time, he wasn't looking at an employee. He was looking at someone he cared about. "Do you really think that's how I see you?"
You couldn't answer.
Because lately, you weren't sure what he saw when he looked at you.
And that uncertainty was far scarier than your diagnosis.
From that day forward, Clay became impossible.
He started checking whether you'd eaten. Demanded breaks. Rescheduled meetings if you looked tired. Sent medical specialists' names to your inbox. Had soup delivered to your apartment when you worked from home.
You accused him of being overbearing.
He accused you of being stubborn.
Neither of you stopped.
Clay had spent years believing he was the one responsible for protecting everyone else.
But for the first time in his life, there was someone he couldn't simply fix with money, influence, or determination.
And for the first time in yours, there was someone refusing to walk away when things became difficult.
As your condition worsened, the balance between CEO and assistant began to blur.
Late-night strategy sessions became quiet dinners. Business trips became opportunities for Clay to make sure you weren't pushing yourself too hard. And somewhere between hospital waiting rooms, boardrooms, and sleepless nights, both of you realized the same thing:
The man everyone believed was untouchable had never been afraid of losing his fortune.
He was afraid of losing you.
And the woman who spent a year managing his life had forgotten how to let someone take care of hers.
Until Clay Beresford decided he wasn't asking permission anymore.
He was staying.
No matter what happened next.
--
The ambulance lights had barely faded from the hospital entrance when the news spread through the institution.
The CEO had collapsed.
No warning.
No dramatic speech.
No chance to catch himself.
A 2 days passed, and the cardiac ICU was unusually quiet.
Monitors hummed softly beside his bed, each beep reminding everyone that his failing heart was still barely keeping up.
Clay stared out the window, dressed in a pale hospital gown instead of his usual tailored suit.
His transplant had finally been approved.
The call they'd waited months for could come at any moment.
A knock sounded.
Without looking, he already knew. "Come in."
You stepped inside carrying a laptop and a thick folder.
"You know," you said, setting everything on the bedside table, "most CEOs only take one or two sick days."
He gave you a tired glance.
"What... are you doing here"
"To haunt you, because of the hypocrisy! Of taking care of dear ol me when you're dealing with something yourself. "
Clay looked away
You opened the folder. "You have forty-three emails marked urgent."
"I'll answer them. You can go-"
"No."
He frowned. "No?"
"No."
For a while they simply sat in silence.
It wasn't awkward. It never had been.
The monitor filled the room with its steady rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Until Clay finally spoke. "I scared everyone."
You looked up. "You scared the board."
"I meant..." His voice grew quieter.
"...you."
You hesitated. "You did"
"I don't remember falling."
"You wouldn't."
"I remember signing paperwork."
"You were arguing over a contract clause."
"I won?"
You rolled your eyes. "You passed out mid-sentence."
"...So probably not."
Another silence settled.
Clay stared at the monitor. "My doctors say the next time this happens..."
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
You knew.
The collapse had been a warning. His heart wasn't going to wait much longer.
"I'm sorry," Clay said quietly.
"For what?"
"For not telling you about my condition... For confronting you when I had no right."
His fingers curled around the hospital blanket.
"I forgive you. I..I needed someone I could be truthful with. And it's fine, you didn't have to tell me about your condition"
Clay relaxes, "I might die."
"No."
"It's possible."
"It's possible your surgery goes well."
"It isn't guaranteed."
"No surgery is."
Clay laughed softly. "You always argue with statistics."
"I argue with pessimism."
"They're different."
"Not when you're involved."
He turned toward you for the first time since you arrived.
"What if I don't wake up?"
The question hung in the air. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just honest.
You felt your throat tighten. "You know what lupus taught me?"
Clay shook his head.
"That you can spend your entire life preparing for the worst..."
You folded your hands in your lap.
"...and still miss the days you actually get."
He watched you carefully.
"You don't get to decide you've already lost."
"I don't decide."
"No."
You met his eyes. "You just assume."
He was quiet for so long, you wondered if you had pushed too far.
Finally, he asked, "Are you scared?"
You almost laughed. "Constantly."
"My surgery?"
"My disease."
You looked down at your hands.
"Every flare makes me wonder if this is the one that damages something permanently."
A pause.
"But if I only thought about that..." You shrugged.
"...I'd never come to work."
Clay smiledโa genuine one this time. "I'd have been completely useless."
"You are sometimes."
"I pay you well."
"You do." You showed a smile. "You ever get tired?" you asked quietly.
"Of work?"
"Of being brave."
The question settled heavily between you.
Clay stared out the window.
Finally he answered. "Every day."
You nodded. "Me too."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was understood.
Two people carrying invisible battles.
Two people pretending less and less each day.
And for the first time in years, Clay realized something.
Maybe surviving wasn't about finding a cure.
Maybe it was about finding someone who understood the fight.
--
Clay looked down at the hospital bracelet around his wrist.
You stood and straightened the blanket absentmindedly, the same way you'd straighten the stack of papers on his desk.
"I'll be here," you said.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
He looked at you.
"You should go home."
You shook your head.
"I've got nowhere more important to be."
For the first time since he was admitted, the fear in Clay's eyes easedโnot because the surgery was certain to succeed, but because, whatever happened next, he wouldn't face it alone.
I.. actually have never seen Awake, hehe, I really want to! But I'm scared that it's gonna be so freaking sad. I already have my guesses, like Clay's wife is probably sneaking with the doctor and shiit idk but I have seen edits of him, specifically the cure edit, which adds to my sadness. ANYWAYS YEAH. I'm very busy, so this is a rushed effort to post smth.
เซฎ โข ๏ป - แ โก