All Chapters of Dumped ,Because His Her Is Back : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

It began with paper soft, unassuming, almost weightless.A letter never meant for the world, written in the quiet hour between midnight and regret.Liam had written it weeks ago, before everything had spun into gossip and noise.He’d written it not for apology, but for clarity the kind that only silence could hold.It lay on his desk still, folded neatly, sealed with no address.Because by the time he finished it, he no longer knew where to send it or if she’d even want to read it.He had moved into a smaller apartment by then something modest, stripped of memories.The kind of place that didn’t echo when you spoke, but still hummed with solitude.The walls were bare except for one framed photograph of the ocean. He liked it because it never stayed the same always changing, yet always itself.Maybe that was what he hoped he’d become.The letter sat beneath that frame, untouched, gathering dust like an unfinished confession.Some nights, he thought about burning it. Other nights, he fo

(Amara’s POV)There are things the world never teaches you how to name.The ache that hums when someone you’ve tried to forget walks through your dreams again. The sudden silence that falls over your day for no reason at all as if the air itself is holding its breath for something you can’t yet see.Amara had begun to feel that silence again.It wasn’t sadness this time. It was something subtler, deeper a pulse beneath her ribs that didn’t belong to loneliness. A whisper that felt like wait.Days had been steady since the storm. The gossip was cooling, the journalists were feeding on other people’s heartbreaks, and she had managed to rebuild the fragile rhythm of normalcy. She painted again, taught a few art classes, smiled when people told her how strong she was. Strength had become her language calm, poised, unshaken.But inside, something was shifting.It began the night she dreamed of the letter.Not the one she’d written but the one she was supposed to receive. In her dream, it g

Amara had always believed silence was her sanctuary.It was where she painted best, healed fastest, and hid safest.But lately, her silence had started to sound like guilt.The world had spoken too loudly for too long in articles, in interviews, in comment threads she never asked for and somewhere between all that noise, she had started mistaking her quiet for control.It wasn’t.It was surrender disguised as peace.It began the morning she found the envelope.Unmarked. No return address. Just resting by the door of her gallery, as though it had found its own way to her.She almost didn’t open it. She thought it was another critique, another request for an exclusive interview about “the scandal that rebirthed her art.”But when she tore it open and read the first line “From the man who got it wrong…” her breath caught.It wasn’t the handwriting she recognized.It was the weight.The letter was long, detailed, and tremblingly human. The journalist confessed everything how he had been u

The city hummed like a tired secret, the kind that never slept but never truly woke either. Amara stood at the balcony of her studio, staring at the fog rolling off the rooftops. Below her, life went on taxis honking, lovers arguing, vendors shouting through the morning rush and yet, all she could hear was the low hum of waiting.Waiting for what, she didn’t know.The last few weeks had been a blur art shows, interviews, messages from galleries she used to only dream about. Her career was finally catching light again, but it all felt fragile. The applause wasn’t for her anymore. It was for the story. The heartbreak. The muse who lost her lover and turned her pain into paintings.And that was the cruelest part.They wanted her pain, not her peace.She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and glanced at the calendar.Friday Gala Night, 7 PM.It was the biggest event of her career. A new collection titled The Shape of Silence. Pieces born out of months of grief, confusion, and deni

Morning did not come softly.It came loud, merciless, and wide awake like a verdict delivered by the sky itself.By 6:00 a.m., Amara’s phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.By 7:00, her name was trending across multiple platforms.By 8:00, her sponsors, gallery curators, and even old acquaintances were calling, each trying to “confirm” the story.And by 9:00, she’d stopped answering.The world wasn’t asking for truth; it was hungry for noise.For spectacle.For the sweet, cruel satisfaction of tearing down a woman who had once survived heartbreak too gracefully.Amara sat by her window, coffee gone cold in her hand, watching the city pulse under grey light.The articles multiplied twisting, resharing, reposting.Every new version distorted something deeper.They called her a manipulative muse, the face of scandal repackaged as art.They said she had “used grief as branding.”Some even speculated she’d orchestrated the leaks herself to stir sympathy, to bring Liam back into relevance.Every w