Chapter 3: Topgolf
The private bay at TopGolf was a verdant cube suspended above the manicured fairways, glass walls offering a panoramic sweep of the Pacific. The sunset was a slow burn, bleeding orange and violet into the water. Will watched Emma Watson line up her shot, her form focused, athletic. She’d changed from the Oxford sweater into dark jeans, a simple white tee, and white sneakers, her hair in a practical ponytail. She looked like anyone. Almost.
The driver connected with a satisfying thwack. The ball launched, a white dot arcing perfectly against the darkening sky before landing with a digital chirp in the distant target zone. A 200-yard carry. Easy.
“Damn,” Will murmured, genuinely impressed.
Emma grinned, retrieving her gin and tonic from a high-top table. “Years of ballet. The core transfer is similar.” She took a long sip, the ice clinking. “Also, it’s wonderfully violent. All that pent-up… everything. Just gone.”
Bindi leaned against the bay’s railing, a glass of sauvignon blanc in hand. They’d agreed this wasn’t a session. This was a welcome, an informal settling-in. Emma had arrived at their cliffside home two hours prior, a single discreet suitcase in tow. The tension had been palpable, a static hum in the air between the three of them. The drive here had helped.
“So, the suite is okay?” Bindi asked.
“It’s beautiful. The sound of the waves is… louder than I imagined.” Emma set her drink down, picked up a nine-iron. “In a good way. It drowns out the internal monologue.” She took a practice swing. “For about five minutes, anyway.”
Will felt Bindi’s signal, a slight shift in her posture. Time to gently steer.
“On the call,” Bindi began, her tone conversational, “you mentioned directing. Editing the scene. Is that a visual thing? Like, you’re literally picturing the room from above?”
Emma hit another ball, this one slicing right. She frowned. “It’s a feeling. A critical one. Like my mind splits. One part is… participating, or trying to. The other part is a fucking stage manager with a clipboard. ‘Hair out of place. That angle creates a double chin. Is that a sigh of pleasure or is he bored? Should I be louder? Softer?’” Her voice took on a flat, detached quality. “It’s a constant audit.”
“And the audit includes your own body,” Bindi stated.
“Especially my body.” Emma’s swing was harder this time, aggressive. The ball became a laser. “It’s the primary set piece, isn’t it? It has to be lit correctly, positioned correctly.”
Will picked up his own club, mostly for something to do with his hands. “You said you can’t get out of your own head. What’s the one thing that would signal you were… out? Fully in your body?”
Emma didn’t answer immediately. She finished her drink, the condensation wetting her fingers. She stared at the horizon where the last sliver of sun was being swallowed by the sea. The hum from the other bays seemed to fade.
“Probably nudity,” she said finally, the word simple and stark.
Bindi stayed perfectly still. Will stopped his practice swing mid-air.
“Not the performative kind. Not the ‘let me slip into something more comfortable’ or the strategic sheet in a film. I mean… total. Vulnerable. I’ve never done it.” She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Pathetic, right? Thirty-four years old. I’ve had relationships. But there’s always a bra. Or socks. Seriously, socks. Or at least panties. Something stays on. A… foothold for the director. A costume piece.”
The admission hung in the salty air. It wasn’t about modesty. It was about control. A final barrier against total exposure, a way for the stage manager to remain on duty.
Bindi put her wine glass down on the table with a soft, deliberate click. “The costume lets the critic stay employed.”
“Exactly.” Emma looked at her, and for the first time, Will saw the full, unvarnished need there. It was terrifying in its intensity. “If I’m still wearing something, I’m still playing a part. The part of a woman having sex. I’m not just… a woman, having sex.”
The sunset was gone now, the world plunged into deep blue twilight. The bay’s overhead lights flickered on, casting their intimate circle in a warm, artificial glow that felt suddenly very separate from the rest of the world.
Bindi caught Will’s eye. It was a loaded glance, a silent exchange honed over years of partnership and shared clients. In it, he saw the clinical assessment: This is the core. He saw the professional excitement: This is solvable. And, faintly underneath, a spark of something more personal, more possessive. They had dismantled this particular block before. The method was physical, immersive, and left very little room for stage managers.
Will gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He felt the familiar shift within himself, the pragmatic marketer receding, the other part—the one that thrived in these charged, intimate spaces—stirring awake.
Emma watched their silent conversation, her expression open, waiting. She had, after all, come here for this.
Bindi broke the gaze, turning back to Emma with a smile that was both gentle and ruthlessly competent. “Then that’s where we start,” she said, her voice cutting through the evening breeze. “We fire the stage manager.”
She picked up her own club, selected a ball, and addressed it with a calm focus. “Tomorrow. We begin.”
--
The next morning, Will found Bindi and Emma in the second-story suite’s kitchen, laughing together. Sunlight streamed through the wall of windows, painting the modern space in bright, clean lines. The smell of expensive coffee and toasted sourdough filled the air.
Emma was leaning against the quartz island, dressed in loose linen pants and a soft grey tank top. She held a mug in both hands, her face relaxed. “No, but seriously, the look on his face,” she was saying, a grin playing on her lips.
Bindi chuckled, slicing an avocado with quick, precise strokes. “I believe it. The corporate retreat guys are the worst. All id, no instruction manual.” She glanced up as Will entered. “Morning. We’re dissecting the male ego over breakfast.”
“My favorite pastime,” Will said, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. The jovial mood was a stark, welcome contrast to last night’s heavy confession. It felt normal. Or as normal as anything could be with Emma Watson in their guest kitchen.
“We’ve been discussing the plan for today,” Bindi said, her tone shifting seamlessly from casual to professional. She wiped her hands on a towel. “We’ll start in the downstairs treatment room in about an hour. It’s simple, conceptually.”
Emma nodded, her expression turning attentive, curious.
“You’ll be blindfolded,” Bindi continued, her voice calm and direct. “You’ll lay on the large massage table. The point is to remove the visual component entirely. No mirrors, no watching yourself, no observing us. It cuts the feed to the director in your head immediately.”
Will poured his coffee, watching Emma process this. She took a slow sip from her mug, her eyes fixed on Bindi.
“Then,” Bindi said, “we’ll begin a very slow, systematic process of undressing. Piece by piece. It’s a de-sensitization protocol. Think of it like those videos on Yonitale, you know? The ones that are just about the slow, deliberate reveal of skin. No performance. Just… exposure.”
Emma’s eyebrows lifted slightly in recognition. “The aesthetic ones. Very calm. Almost clinical.”
“Exactly. Clinical is the goal here,” Bindi affirmed. “It’s not about arousal. Not today. It’s about acclimation. Your body needs to learn that being naked isn’t a performance. It’s just a state of being. The blindfold lets your nervous system feel the air on new skin without your brain editorializing.”
A silence settled, comfortable but charged. Emma put her mug down on the counter with a soft tap. “Okay,” she said, the word definitive. “No audience. No director. Just the sensation.”
“Just the sensation,” Bindi echoed, smiling. “We’ll be your guides. Nothing happens without your explicit, ongoing consent. You say ‘pause’ or ‘stop’, everything stops. This is your terrain.”
Will felt a familiar current in the room, the shift from breakfast chat to the work. It was a feeling he both loved and, in his private moments, wrestled with—a potent mix of professional purpose and something darker, more possessive. He saw the trust settling on Emma’s features, a deliberate laying down of a burden.
“An hour,” Emma said, more to herself than to them.
“An hour,” Bindi confirmed. “Wear something comfortable. Soft. Nothing complicated.”
Emma pushed off from the island, her movement fluid. “I’ll go change.” She walked toward the hallway to her bedroom, her bare feet silent on the polished concrete floor.
The door clicked shut behind her. The kitchen felt suddenly very large and very quiet. Will looked at his wife. Bindi was already clearing the plates, her movements efficient, her mind clearly already in the treatment room.
“I wonder if she'll wear socks,” Will said, a callback to her confession on the driving range.
Bindi smiled and met his gaze, her dark eyes sharp and focused. “We’ll start with the socks.”