Go to the beach instead. You need fresh air.

"Fine," you hear yourself say, the word coming out flat. "We'll go. But not to the room."

Then what you just heard hits you fully. "Uhm. I need... or she needs... Apparently we need a leash first?"

Mikaere nods and produces one from seemingly nowhere, a length of supple brown leather with a brass clip. He steps toward Rosaria's trolley and unclips her wrist cuffs from the rail, then attaches the leash to her collar with a practiced motion. She jerks against it immediately, making furious sounds behind the gag.

"Mmmph! Nngh-mmmm!" Her eyes are blazing.

"I know, amore," you mutter, taking the leash from Mikaere. The leather is warm in your palm. "Fresh air. We need fresh air."

Ms. Tavita nods approvingly. "The beach is lovely this time of day. Through the lobby, past the pool, follow the palm path."

You lead Rosaria across the marble floor, acutely aware of every eye in the lobby tracking your movement. (Although, in fact, there are almost none. Few people bat an eye.) The leash feels obscene in your hand—three feet of leather connecting you to your wife like a pet. She stumbles in her sandals, her muscles still a bit cramped from her being tied to the trolley, and you instinctively slow your pace.

Past the pool—where a woman floats on her back in a see-through leotard swimsuit, her wrists clipped to a floating bar—and down a winding path lined with hibiscus. The humid air wraps around you like a wet towel. Rosaria's breathing is labored through her nose, the gag forcing her to work harder in the heat.

Then you emerge onto "Sunset Beach".

The sand is white, almost blinding in the afternoon sun. The water is that impossible turquoise you only see in travel brochures. And everywhere—everywhere—are couples.

A man in swim trunks has his partner staked out on the sand, her wrists and ankles tied to posts driven into the beach. She's topless, her skin glistening with sunscreen. He sits next to her, reading a paperback, completely relaxed.

Two women play beach volleyball near the waterline, both wearing matching pink bikinis and ankle chains connected by perhaps eighteen inches of chrome. They're laughing, diving for the ball, the chains forcing them to move restrained steps that make some of the plays much more difficult.

Closer to you, a couple sits beneath a palm-frond umbrella. The woman kneels on a beach mat, her head resting in her partner's lap while he reads to her from a Kindle. Her hands are locked in leather mitts behind her back. Every few sentences, he absently strokes her hair.

Rosaria has stopped walking. You turn to find her staring at the staked-out woman, her eyes wide above the gag. One of the playing women notices, waves cheerfully, then goes back to concentrate on the ball.

"Matteo," a male voice suddenly calls from your right. "Matteo Zuccarelli?"

You turn to see a man perhaps your age approaching, powerfully built, with dark hair and an easy smile. He's leading a blonde woman on a leash identical to yours. She's wearing a white bikini and a leather collar, her hands clipped together in front of her.

"Hey, I thought that was you!" The man grins, extending his free hand. "Stéphane Delacroix. From Monaco. You remember me? We were at your cousin Antonio's wedding in Sorrento—three years ago? You made that incredible pasta al limone, right?"

You shake his hand numbly, your brain struggling to place him. Sorrento. The wedding. Yes—Antonio's wife's brother's friend. Or nephew. Or something.

"This is Océane," Stéphane continues, gesturing to his companion. She smiles, dips in a small curtsy despite her bound hands. "When Antonio mentioned you'd booked Patruda, I told him—finally! Someone who gets it."

You stare at him. At cheerful, relaxed Stéphane, who apparently thinks you deliberately came here.