All Chapters of A Kiss For Every Bruise : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Gwen’s POVI did not sleep that night. I lay in the bed that once knew my teenage secrets and adult dreams, listening to a house that no longer breathed with me. Every creak of the floorboards sounded cautious. Every whisper of the wind against the windows felt like a warning.This house remembered the version of me that died, not the woman who survived. Sometime near dawn, I gave up the pretense of rest and stared at the ceiling, letting the realization settle fully into my bones. Adrian was no longer welcome here. That truth hurt more sharply than I expected. It was not just that my family had cut ties with the Salvador family. It was how easily they had done it. How decisively. How convinced they were that loving him had destroyed me.By midmorning, the house was busy with quiet activity. Staff members passed my door with careful steps, their gazes respectful but assessing. News of my return had spread quickly, not just through the family, but through the entire estate. I was no lo

Gwen’s POVThey told me the banquet was for me. A welcome back celebration. That’s how Sebastian phrased it that morning, his voice smooth, reasonable, impossible to argue with without sounding ungrateful or unstable. The household shifted into quiet urgency before noon, florists arriving with pale arrangements, staff polishing silver already spotless, the kitchen humming as if it were preparing for a royal visit.I sat at the vanity in my childhood room while a stylist curled my hair into soft waves I didn’t ask for. “Dinner dress, Miss Gwen,” the maid said gently, holding up a cream silk gown. Cream. The color of innocence. The color of forgiveness. The color Camilla liked best.My reflection stared back at me, familiar bones, familiar eyes, but something about the way I wore my face had changed. I had learned how to disappear inside myself. Mason had made sure of that. Now, standing in the house that once taught me confidence, I felt the old instinct to shrink clawing its way back.

Gwen’s POVThey believed silence meant I was improving. That was their mistake. The first day, I fought them. I argued with Dr. Weston. I demanded to see my parents, demanded my phone, demanded to leave the West Wing. My voice cracked from the strain of it, my body pacing until my legs trembled and my chest burned with words thrown at walls trained not to hear.By nightfall, I understood. Noise gave them justification. So I became quiet. On the second day, I nodded when Dr. Weston spoke. I answered her questions carefully, neutrally. I avoided Camilla’s name entirely. I told her I felt overwhelmed, not imprisoned. Confused, not betrayed. The word dangerous never crossed my lips again.She relaxed almost immediately. “Good,” she said approvingly, pen moving across her notebook. “That’s progress.” Progress. Mason had liked that word too. Quiet was not peace. Quiet was camouflage. I began to pay attention.The West Wing followed patter

Gwen’s POVDr. Weston arrived precisely at ten. The door opened with a faint click, and she glided in as if she owned not just the room but the thoughts it contained. Her smile was gentle, professional, and just slightly too polished. The kind of smile that could soothe or slice, depending on the choice she made.“Good morning, Gwen,” she said, her voice honeyed and calm. “I trust you slept well?” I didn’t answer. I perched on the edge of the chaise lounge, my fingers twisting in my lap. My muscles were taut, coiled like springs. Weston did not comment, she never did. She simply pulled a notebook from her bag, flipping it open with an air of practiced authority.“You’ve made remarkable progress since your last session,” she began. “But trauma is tricky, isn’t it? The mind sometimes fills in gaps… reshapes events to protect itself. Memories… can be… unreliable.”Her words were slow and obviously deliberate. Like a spid

Gwen’s POVThe next session with Dr. Weston began the same way the first one had....quietly, sweetly and deceptively. She had a soft smile, soft voice, soft eyes. Everything about her was muted, like the sound of rain against thick curtains. Safe, if you were not paying attention. Dangerous, if you were. I had learned to pay attention.She sat across from me in my childhood room, which no longer looked like a refuge. The pastel walls and floral curtains felt like props in a theatre I was forced to perform in. I sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, fingers intertwined so tightly they trembled.“Gwen,” Dr. Weston began gently, “how was your sleep last night?” I looked down at my hands, pretending to think. “Fine.” “Nightmares?” “Not last night.”She nodded like she cared. Maybe she convinced herself she did. Manipulators liked to believe they were saviors.“Good,” she murmured. “Very good. Progress is important, especially now that your memories are… clearer.” She paused just long