Revenge13 min read
The Camellia Painting and the Livehouse — How I Burned Down His Empire
ButterPicks21 views
I am Colton Burke.
This is my fifth year loving Emma Yamamoto.
January of that year, Rafael Albrecht’s company held its annual gala. I slipped in and stood in the dim corner of the ballroom, watching her.
She went up on stage as the company’s Employee of the Year. Her speech was steady, her face cold.
She seemed even farther away than the first time I met her five years ago. That quiet, distant shell around her had thickened, like frost over water.
I had already found her music account months ago. I knew her favorite songs, the bands she followed, what she listened to when she couldn’t sleep. Her profile background was an oil painting of camellias in full bloom.
Most of the time she kept a blank face. No joy, no sorrow. It was as if the world could not touch her.
I felt small and helpless.
“How much do I have to grow to be allowed near her?” I asked myself.
Then something gave me a break I didn’t deserve. I answered the phone in my dorm room and heard her voice.
“Colton,” she said coldly. “I work for your father’s company. He wants me to pick you up and take you home. Give me an address, or I’ll announce you missing on the school forum.”
My hands shook. I said the address, trying to keep my voice steady.
My friends teased me later. “Colton, you promised we’d drink here all night. Why are you sneaking off?”
I didn’t say anything. I drank. I kept drinking.
They didn’t understand. I was going to see Emma. I was going to hear her talk to me again, and my voice was so thin I thought it would break.
I wanted her to see what I had become. I wanted her to know the boy who sat in front of her five years ago, hopeless and useless, had changed. I could run my life. I could stand on my own. I would not let Rafael or anyone order me around.
Rafael had returned to my life only after the scandal. His other son—an affair’s child—had died. The woman took what money she could and ran. Rafael came back to me groveling, wanting me to inherit his business and look after him in his old age.
I didn’t need him.
I’d never told Rafael the truth: before my mother died she had set aside a college fund for me. If I failed at everything, it would keep me fed. I invested most of that in a small bar I loved. I used the profits to rent an old factory and turn it into a livehouse — a place for indoor performances, the heartbeat of the neighborhood.
A few selfish pieces of that decision were because of Emma.
I wanted her to see it. I wanted her to know. But I was scared of what that would mean.
When she walked into the gala, the band’s music quieted just a breath. She didn’t need to do anything. She radiated.
She didn’t recognize me.
Her eyes slid across me like I was a dust mote. There was impatience, a slice of cold I couldn’t swallow. I wanted her to come find me, to fuss like she used to, to hold me.
Drunks and friends egged me on. She picked up a bottle and snapped it against the table, then, without blinking, she set the glass shard at my throat.
“Little rich kid,” she said, the smile thin and dangerous. “Picking you up isn’t supposed to be my job. Make one more scene and we’re both in the hospital tonight.”
I stood. I followed her out.
She smelled like a clean winter wind. The yellow light of the car pulled me back to the night I had already tried to drown in.
She had pulled me out of that dark. Then she had turned and left without looking back. I thought it would be a turning point in my life.
Then she sat on my lap and kissed me.
Was that a dream? Had I imagined everything all those nights?
Her lips were warm. Her scent was everywhere. The sound of her voice joined the memory of her fingers against my hair. I fell.
“I won’t let you go,” I mouthed silently as she left my life.
I began to cling.
I found her address and sat outside the door like a stray, hoping she would notice me. I texted until it felt like spamming — until my fingers ached. I stayed at her apartment, pretending to be everywhere.
Then Finley Tarasov appeared.
He saw her sparkle too. He was not the only one who would fall for Emma.
I had to hurry.
I knew, in a way that hurt, she did not accept me because of love alone. I never thought it was because of Rafael.
One night, drunk and tender, she said, “Rafael wanted me. I... I slept with his son instead. Happy now?”
I froze as if someone had poured cold water over my head. The world narrowed to Rafael’s name and a slow, boiling anger.
Why had Rafael called her to pick me up? Why did she look at me with a blade of hatred sometimes? How could she hate me if she didn’t even remember me as a threat?
I plotted, quietly, with the stubbornness of someone who had nothing to lose. I decided to make Rafael pay.
We were a strange team. My friends Emory Conley and Eaton Simon thought I was doing this for pride. Gustaf Ito helped me with the numbers and the scheme. Finley watched from a distance like a storm on the horizon.
It took time. A livehouse needs time. So do plans that become a public blaze.
“I’ve set up the new venue,” I told Emma after I had opened the fourth club and after she had watched me become someone else.
“You keep building houses of sound,” she said with a strange smile. “Do they all have me on the posters?”
“Only the ones you come to,” I replied.
She loved some band that played there. We stayed after the show and got signatures and photos from the drummer. I stood watching them all the time, feeling like the last slice of sunlight.
One night, at a later show, she took my hand at a red light and squeezed. “Do you get jealous?” she asked.
“I learned a little drumming in school,” I said. “I just want you to look at me, even for one second.”
“Then I’ll come to your game,” she answered.
She did. She came with a banner and a headband with my name printed on it. She tied her hair into a ponytail and waited at the gym door. When I saw her, the court lit up.
After the game she hugged me, smelling like bleach and adrenaline, and whispered, “I wanted to grab you when I saw your shirt rise and your abs showed.”
I felt like I could breathe.
She let me do things for her. I learned to cook because she never liked doing it. When her family demanded money and shoved her aside, I shut their door. I learned to be strong in places I had been soft.
We were engaged in a small, private way in a second proposal by the sea. I put a ring on her finger; she cried in a movie theater during a film called My Sister. It was strange to watch her cry and not know the exact reason.
“Do you want kids?” she asked once, face small and direct.
“This is not about kids,” I fibbed, and she laughed, then kissed me. “You wearing my ring, you cannot back out.”
She married me the next spring. The guests were few. We started a new life stitched together from years of rescues and stubbornness.
That should have been my ending. Instead it became the beginning.
Rafael never stopped meddling. He had the money and an old title. He breathed like a storm in my past.
I had built a map of his faults the same way I built my venues: brick by brick, number by number. Emory and Eaton handled the social angle. Gustaf dug into bookkeeping and corporate records, into loans and hidden transfers.
“You sure we can expose him?” Emory asked in a low voice in the back room of our smallest club.
“We need a stage bigger than this,” I said. “We need people.”
“We have people,” Eaton replied. “You have a wife who works in his company.”
Emma’s presence at the gala five years earlier had been forced by Rafael. She had worked under him. He had used power against her. He had bullied and ordered with entitlement.
We moved slowly. Finley’s name kept reappearing — he was not an enemy but his curiosity made him cross our path. He had once helped Emma in small ways and loved her honestly. He deserved a truth, and, in time, he got it.
It was at Rafael’s annual shareholders’ luncheon that we struck.
The auditorium was full. Bright lights. Many cameras. Rafael walked the stage like a king. His voice owned the room.
He began the address about growth, about legacy, about loyalties. Everyone listened. Investors hung on his tone.
Emma came because she had to, because she still worked there. She moved through the crowd with that old camellia painting on her phone as her profile — a small, private thing that meant more than the awards around her neck.
I sat in the audience, a ticket in my hand, a plan in my mouth. Emory, Eaton, and Gustaf were planted around the room. Finley sat a few rows ahead, alone and suspicious.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rafael said, “we’ve had a strong year.”
He smiled like he always did — polished teeth, practiced warmth.
I rose slowly.
“I never thought I’d be here,” I said, walking toward the stage. “But Rafael deserves the last word.”
The room murmured.
Security moved toward me. Rafael’s face changed — a flicker of irritation, then amusement.
“Colton?” he called. “Is this a joke?”
“No joke,” I said. My voice was loud enough for the cameras. “This is for Emma.”
I walked to him and handed a folder to the moderator. Gustaf’s voice echoed through the conference microphones as he played the documents live: emails, signed receipts, hotel logs, hidden transfers. The projection screens behind Rafael lit up with numbers and photos.
“This man,” I said, pointing, “used company money to bribe, to hide debts, to pressure employees. Here is proof he coerced an employee named Emma to meet him. Here is the proof of an affair; here is the proof he shielded illegal transfers into shell accounts.”
Rafael’s smile froze. His hands — the same hands that had waved in the mirror — tightened.
He stammered. “This is— illegal!” he shouted, voice cracking between anger and denial.
“You made my life miserable,” Emma said, stepping forward. Her voice did not shake. “You told me to pretend, to endure. You threatened my family. You took advantage of me. This is the truth.”
The room’s hum exploded into a hush and then a roar. Phones came up everywhere. People leaned forward. The main investors let go of conversations. A cameraman edged closer, pressing the lens into Rafael’s face.
Rafael’s expression moved in a violent slide: from stunned to outrage, then to denial, then to disbelief. He pounded a fist on the podium.
“This is slander!” he yelled.
“Show them the receipts,” I said. “Show them the bank transfers you thought you’d hidden. Show them the guest logs for that night in your hotel.”
He laughed, a raw sound that didn’t match his usual polished tone. “You think these papers matter? I built this company.”
“You built it with people’s trust,” Emma replied. “You traded trust for fear.”
A director of one of the funds stood up. “We will audit.” Another investor whispered, “This could sink us.”
Rafael’s aides tried to form a protective line. His assistant mouthed something frantic. The camera crews panned, hungry.
“Colton, you have no idea what you’re doing. This is libel!” Rafael barked.
“Do it on the record,” I said. “Let the law do its work. But today is the market reaction.”
On the notice boards of the shareholders, Gustaf had arranged a timed email that released the core documents to the press during the meeting. It began to trend. “Rafael Albrecht scandal” appeared on live feeds.
Rafael’s face lost its color. His assistant, who had been so composed before, was now pale and shaking. Investors whispered into phones. Two very loud voices near the back said, “We withdraw our support.”
He moved from anger to pleas. “Emma, you’re ruining— this company— my family—” he stuttered.
People around us started to record. A woman near the front took a photograph with her phone and shared it to a finance group. Comments flew: “I always suspected mismanagement.” “How did we miss this?” The applause Rafael expected for the rest of the program never came.
Rafael tried to steady himself by calling the head of legal. “Sue them,” he hissed into the phone. “Call the police. Get them out.”
Security hesitated. Many were employees who had families to think about. They looked to the board chairs. The lead investor cleared his throat and asked for a recess.
I watched Rafael’s mask crumble. He was no longer a king, just a man confronted with his debts of shame. He stepped down from the stage and turned to Emma.
“You’re lying,” he croaked. “You’re vilifying me because of a grudge.”
Emma’s face was serene. “I reported to HR years ago and you buried it. The matter was closed because you were strong enough to make sure it stayed closed.”
A mutter passed through the hall. At least six people around the table exchanged glances and began packing documents. The PR director had no prepared response for this.
His reaction changed — the pride drained, then fear came. “Colton, please,” he begged now. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand that you thought your money would save you,” I said. “It won’t. Not from this.”
He lunged toward Emma, grabbing at her elbow. The action was clumsy and angry.
I stepped between them and felt the whole room lean in like a spectator at a match. A woman snapped a photo as Rafael’s hand closed on Emma’s sleeve. Cameras flashed like thunder.
People’s faces changed. The board members closest to Rafael flinched. One board member, a woman who had admired Rafael’s empire for years, got up and walked to the microphone.
“This company stands for integrity. We will open an investigation. Mr. Albrecht, you will step down until this is cleared.”
It was like watching ice break. Rafael’s eyes widened. He had built walls out of connections, but walls crumble when enough hands pull at them.
“I will not be—” he started, and then tried to compose himself. He had no idea how to behave in that new silence. He prayed to old friends. They did not answer; their lips were tight.
Security escorted him away for his safety as the cameras pressed forward. He was not arrested then. He did not go to jail that day. But the public spectacle stayed — the looks, the whispers, the slow dismantling.
Outside, reporters swarmed. Phones recorded. Emma stood with me and said, “This is only the start.”
Rafael’s face, seen on live streams and every financial newsfeed, shifted from arrogant to hollow. In the days that followed, his company’s stocks dropped. Investors withdrew. His partners made cautious statements. The bank called for audits.
At a developer’s lunch where Rafael hoped to retain support, he sat at the head of a long table. The room had turned from friendly to hostile. People used to laughing with him now talked in soft, careful voices. His usual jokes landed like pebbles in a deep well.
One man he had once supported stood up and said flatly, “I cannot be involved with someone who coerces employees. I withdraw my investment.”
Rafael’s face went from red to pale. He asked for explanations, for private meetings. He made pleas. People recorded him. Someone posted a short clip of him asking, “Who wants to help me?” The clip received thousands of comments with cruel delight the next morning.
I watched him collapse in his car alone, gripping the steering wheel, the camera reflecting in his eyes like shards of glass. He called his lawyer, then hung up. He tried to call old allies; no one answered. He went to a private dinner arranged by his assistant; only three people showed up.
His empire lost its shine.
I had wanted him to feel loss — to have what he had taken from others reflected back. Seeing him in public, trying to keep a composure he no longer owned, was a small, terrible satisfaction.
I did not celebrate alone. Emory, Eaton, and Gustaf celebrated with me in the back room of the livehouse. Finley came too, not to gloat but because he wanted to see truth served.
“Is this enough?” Eaton asked, voice low.
“It’s a start,” I said. “He will be exposed, his connections fray, and people will know. Emma can breathe.”
She did.
After that public unmasking, the little, private moments returned — the warm edges of domestic life I had always wanted. We cooked. I learned new dishes and she praised them even when they were imperfect. We had nights where she teased me about nothing. We bickered. We laughed.
“Do you regret any of this?” she asked once while we cleaned up plates.
“I regret I let him touch your life. Not this,” I said.
She looked at me in a way that made my ribs ache. “You were always stubborn.”
We rebuilt small things. I painted a camellia for her on a piece of scrap wood and nailed it above our door. It was not the oil painting she used as her profile, but the petals felt like a promise.
“Why a camellia?” she asked, smiling.
“Because I remember it was on your screen the first time I found you,” I told her. “Because you were the one who taught me to love the small, soft things.”
She pressed her forehead to mine. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But effective,” I said.
Years later, on a quieter morning, I heard the clink of a cup and the low hum of a soundcheck downstairs. The livehouse was open and humming. We had built four venues, and each one was louder than the last in its honesty.
Someone once asked me if revenge tasted bitter.
“It’s not revenge,” Emma said one day when someone tried to label it. “It’s restitution.”
She squeezed my hand.
I think about Rafael sometimes. He still tries to call from time to time. His voice is a ghost through the line. He asks for mercy. He begs to make things right.
“I can never forget what you did,” Emma told him the day he texted her through a lawyer.
“I know,” she said. “And I don’t want you in my life.”
He sent messages begging for forgiveness. He came to the public hearings and watched the board vote for an independent inquiry. He sat in a chair with a face like a ruined empire.
On one of the last days he came to the company building, he stood outside the boardroom corridor and watched the camellia painting that Emma had once hung in the staff lounge. His hands trembled. People who had once deferred to him walked past with their heads high and did not bow. He asked an intern for water and was ignored.
The worst punishments are not those with a gavel and a cell. The worst are the ones where everyone you counted on becomes a stranger.
Once, at a charity concert we hosted at the main livehouse, someone in the crowd shouted his name. People booed. Someone videoed him and posted it within minutes. He tried to raise his hand to speak to the press and the crowd turned, a wave of faces like ocean pulling away.
He had been the man who thought he could own people. Now he sat alone on a small bench outside the venue, clutching a printed shareholder letter, the ink smudged with his tears, and no one came to his rescue.
That is how the proud fall. They fall publicly, and the fall becomes their punishment.
After all of it, in the quiet that followed the storm, Emma and I kept tending the livehouse and our life. We had small rituals: the camellia over the door, a song she loved playing every Sunday, and a chipped mug she refused to throw away because it reminded her of a nervous first coffee with me.
I still love her with the same blunt, burning hunger. I am no longer a boy who hid in corners. I step into the light because she taught me how.
One night, years later, I opened the small drawer where I kept the ring I had given her before we married. I wound it in my fingers and then placed it under the camellia painting on the living-room shelf. The petals there looked like a map of where we had walked together.
Emma watched me tidy and asked, “Are you putting that away?”
“I’m not ready to throw it,” I said.
She laughed. “Neither am I.”
We stood there for a long time, hand in hand, watching the posters from our livehouses, the band photos, the noise blurred into a pleasant hum.
The camellia painting—rough, painted with cheap acrylic paint—caught the light. Its petals were not perfect, but they were ours.
And when the doorbell rang that night, bringing a stray musician with a guitar and hopeful eyes, I opened the door with Emma at my side, and the light of the living room fell across the camellia like a blessing.
The End
— Thank you for reading —