Chapter 2 — Deva’s Calculated Indifference

Third Person

The faint scent of polished wood and cigar smoke lingered in the air of Callen Manor’s sitting room, heavy and suffocating. Deva Callen stood by the enormous floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city below, its flickering lights sprawling like veins of molten gold against the darkened skyline. The glass reflected her sharp features, statuesque and cold, her piercing blue eyes alive with silent calculation, though her expression remained unreadable.

Her gaze shifted over the city. Its oppressive glow, the smog curling like ghosts above the streets, hinted at the world she ruled—a world bound by power, fear, and precision. This was her empire, a complex web of control. Her fingers brushed the edge of the window frame, idly tracing the cool surface as her thoughts churned. Somewhere beneath her composed exterior, an echo of unease stirred, but she crushed it with practiced discipline.

A faint knock broke the silence, tentative and measured. Deva’s lips curled into a faint, icy smile as she turned, her heels clicking sharply against the cold marble floor. “Enter.”

The door opened, and Harold stepped inside. His posture was stiff, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as if to stop them from trembling. His tailored suit, usually impeccable, hung strangely, pulling at the shoulders—a subtle but telling sign of strain. Harold’s gaze darted quickly toward Deva’s before dropping to the floor, the barest nod of deference. A bead of sweat traced a line down his temple as he cleared his throat.

“Madam Callen,” he began, his voice uneven, overly formal. “We’ve received word from the Industrial Port.”

Deva tilted her head slightly, watching him with the unrelenting focus of a predator. She said nothing, letting the silence stretch, heavy and deliberate. Harold shifted on his feet, his hand twitching toward his cufflink as if seeking an anchor.

“Verity’s team has been...” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Intercepted. Captured by the De Donté cartel. Axel De Donté was directly involved.”

The words dropped into the room like stones into still water, rippling outward. Deva’s expression did not waver. She moved back to her desk with smooth precision, placing a manicured hand on the polished surface. Her fingers traced an invisible line along the mahogany edge, slow and deliberate.

“And Verity?” she asked finally, her voice measured, devoid of inflection.

“Alive, ma’am. For now.”

A faint twitch of her brow revealed the only crack in her composure. “For now,” she repeated softly, almost to herself, as though weighing the words. Her gaze shifted back to the window, to the city’s restless glow, its lights flickering like the churn of her thoughts.

“Do you have any further orders?” Harold ventured, his voice cracking slightly as the silence pressed down on him.

Deva’s shoulders rose and fell in a single, controlled breath. “No,” she said, her tone cool and clipped. “That will be all.”

Harold lingered for half a second too long, his eyes flickering toward the imposing family portraits that lined the walls. The Callen legacy loomed over everything here, a silent reminder of the weight of their name. “Yes, ma’am,” he murmured at last, retreating with quickened steps. The door closed behind him with a soft but final click.

Alone, Deva returned to her desk, lowering herself into the high-backed chair with unhurried grace. The silence in the room was oppressive, thick with unspoken thoughts. Her fingers steepled in front of her lips as her gaze unfocused, staring at something beyond the room’s confines.

Verity.

The name lingered in her mind, stirring a faint, unnameable sensation deep within her. Her daughter. Her enforcer. Her creation. But she could not summon even a flicker of maternal worry. Weakness like that had no place here—not in her family, not in herself. Instead, her thoughts turned to the ledger, its leather-bound weight a symbol of her control.

Her mind flicked back to a memory, vivid and cutting.

Verity had been twelve, her auburn hair tied back in a messy braid as she trailed behind her mother at the far end of Callen Manor’s sprawling grounds. The night was humid, thick with the scent of damp grass and gun oil. Deva’s heels sank slightly into the soft earth as she walked, her pace brisk and unyielding. Verity struggled to keep up, her smaller frame taut with a mix of fear and determination.

“What are we doing out here?” she had asked, her voice trembling but carefully measured, knowing better than to betray too much emotion.

Deva didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The muffled cries reached them first, then the sight of the man kneeling in the dirt. His face was bloodied, his eyes wide and pleading as they locked onto hers.

“This,” Deva had said coldly, gesturing toward the man, “is what happens when loyalty falters. When someone forgets their place.”

She turned to Verity, her expression unreadable. A pistol gleamed in her hand, catching the faint moonlight as she extended it toward her daughter.

“Take it.”

Verity’s hands shook as she reached for the weapon, the weight of it almost too much for her to bear. Her grey eyes were wide, unblinking, as she stared at the man. His muffled sobs grew louder, his terror palpable.

“I can’t—” Verity had begun, but the words died in her throat as Deva’s hand shot out, gripping her chin with bruising force.

“You can,” Deva hissed. “You must. If you want to survive in this world, you must understand what loyalty costs.”

The sound of the gunshot still echoed in her mind, sharp and final. The recoil had sent Verity stumbling, the pistol nearly slipping from her grasp. The man’s body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and the silence that followed was deafening.

That night, Deva had sat by her daughter’s bedside, watching as the girl tossed and turned in restless sleep. She felt no guilt, no regret. Only satisfaction. Verity would grow stronger because of it. She would learn.

Now, years later, as Deva’s fingers traced the edges of the ledger on her desk, she wondered if she had underestimated the seeds she had sown. Loyalty, sharp and precise, had a way of dulling over time, of cutting both ways.

Hector De Donté’s name surfaced in her thoughts, unbidden. He was not a man to be trusted. But he was useful. For now. Sacrifices had to be made in the pursuit of power—the kind that solidified empires. Verity would understand that, in time.

Or she wouldn’t.

Deva rose, smoothing the fabric of her tailored suit with practiced efficiency. She moved back to the window, her reflection merging with the city below. The flickering lights stretched endlessly, a reminder of the web of alliances and rivalries she controlled. Her thoughts drifted to Hector, to Axel, to the precarious tightrope they all walked.

And to Verity, bound and defiant, her sharp grey eyes undoubtedly burning with unspoken rage.

Deva’s smile returned, cold and calculating.

“How far can loyalty take you, my dear?” she murmured to the empty room, her voice barely audible. “Let’s find out.”