Emma

Emma Watson had taken a private seaplane and brought it to the island castle to meet Mr. Roarke, who was waiting for her in the lord's office. Taboo saw the car arrive in the courtyard. Mr. Roarke greeted her as she stepped out of his limousine and gave her a perfect kiss on the hand.

• Welcome to our island, Miss Watson, come to the castle office.

Emma smiled shyly and nodded. Once inside, she was able to remove her sunglasses and headband.

Mr. Roarke gallantly offered her a comfortable seat before returning to his own.

• I have received your request. I am quite surprised that you would express this fantasy, but of course we can satisfy you and guarantee total discretion. However, I would like you to confirm and explain it to me.

Emma was nervous; she was about to make a request that was not trivial.

• Mr. Roarke, I've long been intrigued by BDSM, **** sex, but my popularity puts me in a situation that's impossible for my career to manage. Between filming sessions, I'd like to be introduced to BDSM, the most severe and **** submission, but without it interfering with my career. Your island is the only way to do this in a controlled and discreet setting without destroying everything.

-Would you like to start now?

• Yes, I can't sleep anymore. I know that if I don't pursue this obsession, I'll end up doing something stupid. You're my only recourse.

Mr. Roarke inclined his head slightly, an enigmatic smile on his lips. He stood with calculated elegance and walked around his imposing mahogany desk, his fingers casually brushing over the papers arranged in neat piles.

"Very well, Miss Watson," he murmured in a velvety voice. "Then allow me to show you something."

He approached an inconspicuous wall panel and pressed a piece of carved wood.

With a soft click, a hidden panel opened, revealing a dimly lit passageway. The air flowing through was cool, laden with the faint scent of leather and sandalwood.

"Follow me," Roarke murmured, reaching out into the shadows. Emma hesitated—for a second—before stepping forward, her heels digging slightly into the plush Persian rug as she crossed the threshold.

The passageway was narrow, lined with dark mahogany panels and soft gold sconces that flickered like candlelight. The walls seemed to hum with anticipation, or perhaps it was simply the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. Roarke moved with expert ease, her silhouette slicing through the darkness before her.