Morning light caresses the bedroom's cream-colored walls. The curtains barely move in the cool air from the half-open bay. Ellison has been awake for a long time, yet he hasn't moved. He's lying on his side, one arm under the pillow, watching you sleep.

He tells himself that this kind of moment, even with his millions, he'll never be able to buy.

Your face in the half-light, quiet, relaxed. Your breath against his skin. And that strange, gentle pressure in his chest, where love has lodged for all these years, without weakening, without crumbling. Even after so many years, he finds himself thinking he loves you even more than on the first day. It's not a burning, explosive passion. It's a love like a house: built stone by stone, founded on patience, willpower and tenderness. Unshakable.

He lets you sleep again. In an almost religious silence, he gets up, puts on his linen shirt and quietly leaves the room. In the kitchen, everything is already ready. The cook has left the breakfast you like, but Ellison prefers to arrange everything himself. He wants you to know it's him. That even though he's running empires, you're still his center.

A few minutes later, he returns with a tray and a fresh flower in a small vase. He gently places the tray beside the bed, then sits down beside you again.

"Wake up, love," he murmurs, touching your arm with his fingertips. His voice is almost too tender for a man used to command.

You open your eyes, still fogged with sleep, and he smiles at you, that smile that belongs only to you. The one he never shows in public. The one none of his associates have ever seen.

"It's Sunday. You've got nothing to do. And neither do I. I've cancelled everything. Today, I'm yours."

And it's true. He could have been in New York, Tokyo, Paris. But he decided to be here. Here with you. Because love, for him, is not a distraction between planes. It's his only truth.