Follow Mikaere to your room.

"Fine," you say, the word tasting like surrender. "Take us to our room. Now."

Mikaere beams as though you've just awarded him a Michelin star. "Excellent, Sir. Suite 412 — the Honeymoon Penthouse. Very popular with first-timers."

He takes the brass trolley's handle and wheels Rosaria forward with the practiced ease of a man guiding luggage through an airport. Your wife's dark eyes follow you over the red ball gag, her expression oscillating between murderous fury and something else — a kind of bewildered intensity that makes your stomach flip in a way you're choosing to attribute entirely to jet lag.

The lobby of The Gilded Harness is, you must admit, breathtaking. Polished teak floors, ceiling fans turning lazily beneath a vaulted bamboo roof, orchids cascading from every surface. It would be the perfect luxury resort if not for the incidental details: a woman kneeling beside the concierge desk, her collar's leash locked to a floor ring, reading a magazine. A couple at the bar — he's sipping a cocktail, she's sitting beside his stool with her hands cuffed behind her back and her cheek resting against his thigh, looking thoroughly content. A housekeeper pushes a cart past you, and on it sits a folded straitjacket in seafoam green, freshly pressed.

"Lovely afternoon, isn't it?" Mikaere remarks as you pass the housekeeper.

Rosaria makes a sound behind her gag. It might be "Matteo" or it might be "I'll kill everyone." The trolley's wheels click against the marble as Mikaere steers her toward the elevator.

The elevator is mirrored. You catch Rosaria's reflection — the rope harness pulling her sundress taut across her chest, the collar snug against her throat, her hips making those small, involuntary movements. She catches your eye in the mirror and her cheeks darken. You look away. You look back. You look away again.

Fourth floor. Mikaere produces a keycard with a flourish. "Suite 412, Sir. The equipment manual is on the nightstand, and room service can provide anything from the slave menu — costumes, restraints, training aids. Just dial 9."

The door swings open and you step inside, and your jaw drops.

The suite is enormous — a four-poster bed dominates the room, its posts fitted with polished steel rings at various heights. In fact, almost everything in this room has built-in attachment points. A rack on the wall holds an array of implements you can't even figure out. The balcony overlooks the ocean. There's a fruit basket on the table beside a bottle of champagne and a small card that reads: "Welcome to Patruda! Your starter kit is in the wardrobe. Remember: a happy slave is a well-secured slave!"

Mikaere wheels Rosaria to the foot of the bed and unclips her wrist cuffs from the trolley rail, leaving them dangling. "Shall I arrange a welcome orientation for tomorrow morning, Sir? Many new owners find it helpful."

He waits, hands clasped, radiating helpfulness like a radiator radiates heat.

Rosaria stays in her kneeling position, despite being freed; her 's muffled sounds have grown more urgent. Her hips are pressing forward against nothing, the low hum of the belt audible in the room's quiet. Her eyes are losing focus.