All Chapters of Dumped ,Because His Her Is Back : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Distance, at first, was supposed to help them heal.To give them air to breathe, silence to think, and time to remember who they were before the world learned their names.But distance had a strange way of turning into a ghost the kind that didn’t just haunt your bed, but your heartbeat.For Amara, it was the weight behind her brushstroke, the tremor in her voice whenever she tried to tell herself she was fine.For Liam, it was the echo in every room he entered, the lingering scent of memory in every letter he never sent.They lived apart yet the air between them hummed with everything unsaid.Amara’s art began to shift. Her paintings grew darker, her colors more muted, her strokes more deliberate like she was trying to bury emotion beneath texture.People called it evolution. Critics called it depth.But those who truly knew her the few who had witnessed her before fame whispered that her new work looked more like grief.She could hear them sometimes, murmuring behind her at exhibits

The screen glowed faintly in the darkened room, casting blue light across a cluttered desk littered with printouts, scribbled notes, and empty coffee cups. The article sat there still pinned on the site’s homepage, its headline bold and venomous.“The Poet and the Betrayer: Amara’s Return to the Man Who Broke Her.”That line alone had drawn over a million views in forty-eight hours. It was the kind of story that made careers in the journalism world sensational, tragic, viral. The kind that people shared not because they cared about the truth, but because they wanted to taste the wreckage of someone else’s life.But now, every time Jordan looked at it, their chest tightened.At first, the guilt was mild a low, nagging pulse behind the thrill of publication. “It’s just a piece,” they’d told themselves. “The public’s already talking I only gave it shape.”But now the noise had turned into something heavier. The comment sections were toxic. Amara’s art page had gone silent. Liam hadn’t be

(Amara’s POV)The day the letter arrived, the world felt strangely still as if even the air was holding its breath.The postman had slipped it through the gate quietly, no knock, no sound. It landed against the dusty floor of her porch, face down, half-hidden by a fallen bougainvillea petal that looked almost too red like it was bleeding into the paper.Amara wouldn’t have noticed it if not for the wind. The wind, always a meddler, flipped the envelope over and revealed her name written in looping, unfamiliar handwriting.Amara Nyarko.No return address. No company seal. Just that her name.She stood there for a while, hesitant. The world had sent her too many letters lately interview requests, art inquiries, press invitations all polite disguises for curiosity. Each one asked, indirectly, “How does it feel to be the woman who lost love twice?”She’d stopped reading them.Stopped replying.Stopped opening anything that wasn’t directly from her gallery.But something about this one… fe

(Jordan’s POV)It began as a whisper a soft, untraceable echo that followed him home.At first, Jordan thought it was just paranoia. A journalist’s curse, maybe. After months of tracing lies, building timelines, and threading stories together that weren’t supposed to touch the mind starts creating ghosts in the corners of rooms. But this… this was different.The feeling didn’t fade.It grew.He noticed the same dark sedan twice that week. Once parked across his apartment. Again near the café where he usually met his sources. The same dent on the rear bumper, the same silence in the driver’s seat no one got out, no one ever did.He told himself it was coincidence.He told himself he wasn’t important enough to be followed.But deep down, he knew he was lying.Because Jordan wasn’t just chasing gossip anymore. He had stumbled onto something much heavier the truth behind Liam’s supposed betrayal, the carefully spun chaos that had ruined not one life, but two.And whoever orchestrated it…

Jordan hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. His reflection in the mirror didn’t look like his own anymore eyes too alert, face too pale, and a pulse that beat like a metronome of guilt. He’d thought publishing the story would make him famous. He hadn’t realized it would make him afraid.The pieces weren’t fitting together the way they used to. His inbox was full of anonymous messages half threats, half warnings and every time he tried to trace one, the trail looped back to him. Someone wanted him to stop digging. Someone wanted him to stay silent.He poured another coffee, hands trembling as the liquid sloshed over the cup’s edge. His laptop hummed, the screen glowing with the document that had started it all: “The Letter That Shattered Her Career.” That was the headline. The one that turned Amara into a spectacle and Liam into a villain. The one he’d written.But now… the sources didn’t add up. The photos he’d been sent were cropped. The “witnesses” couldn’t be found. The recordings he