Mr USA And Mrs India The breaking point

The breaking point

As he sat in his office now, the news of Roshni’s ascension to CEO still echoed in his mind. He had heard it again—this time through the grapevine, the whispers of Rawat’s corporate world—but it didn’t bother him. In fact, he found it somewhat amusing. Roshni was a pawn in a much larger game, and he knew it. She was clever, yes, but she wasn’t prepared for the storm that was coming her way. Sam swiveled in his chair, staring out the window at the bustling city below. His thoughts shifted to the Rawat family—his wife, Ragini, her strained relationship with her family, and the position they all found themselves in. They were living in the Rawat mansion now, but Sam didn’t forget the years they had spent away in the United States. The ties between his family and the Rawats had frayed over the years, but the current situation was just another layer of complexity in the game of power and politics. Ragini’s claim as the rightful heir was irrefutable. But the family’s corporate structure and the way things had unfolded—Roshni’s cold ascension to the CEO position—told Sam all he needed to know. The game was far from over. And now, with Roshni in charge, things were about to get very interesting. Sam leaned forward, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He knew exactly how this would play out. He had his own plans, and he was more than willing to wait for the right moment to strike. Ragini might have been the rightful heir, but if she didn’t act soon, the empire would slip through her fingers—like so much sand. And Sam wasn’t about to let that happen. With a final glance at the city skyline, Sam leaned back in his chair again. It was just a matter of time.

OTHERSIDE

The morning fog hung heavy in the air, the city streets bustling with the usual rush of traffic. Cars honked impatiently, a cacophony of honks, engines, and the soft hum of distant chatter. Yet, in the midst of all this noise, one figure moved with a deliberate calm. Virendra Singh Rawat, as usual, was making his way to the office in his black SUV, surrounded by his usual entourage of security. The sniper, hidden in a nondescript car a few hundred meters behind, watched through his scope with a focused intensity. His breathing was shallow, his hands slick with sweat despite the cool morning. This was not a routine job. No, this was something different, something bigger. The weight of the task he had been hired for pressed on him heavily. The sniper’s eyes remained trained on the target—Virendra Rawat, the patriarch of the Rawat empire, a man who commanded respect, power, and fear. The sniper’s thumb slowly adjusted the windage dial on his rifle, measuring the distance, the angle, the wind—everything. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he checked the time. The moment had to be precise, the shot perfect. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. He had been paid well for this. Too well. The money had been enough to silence any hesitation, but there was something about killing someone of Virendra’s stature that gnawed at him. This wasn’t a random target—it wasn’t an assassination for the money alone. There were layers to this job, a web of connections he couldn’t quite see. But those didn’t matter now. His finger hovered over the trigger, the weight of the weapon heavy in his hands. His eyes flicked back to Virendra’s car, which was now slowing down at a red light. He couldn’t afford to lose his shot. Every second felt like an eternity. The sniper’s mouth was dry, but his resolve was hardening. The car in front of Virendra’s SUV made a sharp turn, slowing down just enough to give the sniper the angle he needed. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move, didn’t waver. His focus was sharp, the rifle steady in his hands.

One shot. He squeezed the trigger, the sound of the bullet exiting the chamber barely audible over the roar of traffic. Time seemed to slow, everything blurring into a single, perfect moment. The bullet flew through the air like a silent predator, its trajectory set—unerring, precise. And then—bang. Virendra’s SUV jerked violently as the bullet struck the windshield, the impact sending a crack through the glass. Inside the car, the world seemed to shift. For a split second, the sniper saw Virendra's figure slump in his seat. A pool of blood began to spread slowly across the seat and the shattered glass. The sniper didn’t wait to watch the aftermath. He was already unstrapping himself from the seat, the sweat now pouring down his face. He quickly discarded his weapon in the backseat, wiped his hands on a cloth, and reached for the gear shift. The car began to move, weaving through traffic as the sniper sped off, heart pounding in his chest. But there was no relief. Not yet. The deed was done, but the consequences were only just beginning.

Virendra Singh Rawat had been taken out. But who would be next?

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