“Marrying a plumber? How embarrassing,” my parents sneered. My sister laughed and asked who would attend such a wedding. They turned their backs, leaving me to walk the aisle alone. But when our wedding aired on national TV, I woke up to 223 missed calls…
“A plumber? Elena, are you kidding?”
My mother, Victoria Prescott, slammed her porcelain teacup down so hard that tea splattered everywhere. She looked at me as if I’d just confessed to having a contagious disease. We were sitting in the living room of our family mansion in Beacon Hill, where every piece of furniture was older than Jack—my fiancé.
“His name is Jack, Mom,” I tried to remain calm, my hand gripping my handbag. “And he’s a good man, hardworking, and he loves me.”
“Love?” My father, Charles, scoffed from behind his Wall Street Journal. “Does love pay the country club bill? Does love help you hold your head high in Boston high society? Marrying a plumber? How embarrassing.”
My sister, Clarissa, who had just married a state senator, walked into the room with a glass of mimosa in her hand. She gently stroked a lock of her lustrous blonde hair, pouting:
“Oh, Elena, where are you planning to have your wedding? In the sewers? Who would attend a wedding like that? Who are you going to invite? The sanitation workers and those truck drivers? I’m not going. My husband is campaigning; he can’t possibly show up at such a… low-class event.”
“Your parents won’t be coming either,” my mother declared coldly. “If you walk out this door and choose that plumber, you’re no longer a Prescott daughter. Don’t expect a penny of inheritance or a blessing.”
I looked at the three of them. My relatives. The ones who always taught me about “status” but forgot to teach me about “character.”
“Fine,” I stood up, swallowing back my tears. “I’ll go alone. And I hope you won’t regret it.”
They burst out laughing. Their laughter followed me to the door, sharp and cruel. They turned their backs and walked away, continuing their lives of luxury, convinced that I was plunging headlong into a life of poverty and humiliation.
Chapter 2: The Lonely Wedding Hall
Three months later.
I stood before the grand entrance of the wedding venue. No father to escort me. No mother to adjust my dress. No sister to be my bridesmaid. I was alone in the simple wedding dress I had bought myself with my savings.
Jack had chosen the location. He said he wanted to keep it a secret until the last minute. “Just trust me,” he had said, his calloused hands holding mine warmly.
The limousine (which Jack had hired, I guess) stopped in front of an old industrial building in the Boston harbor area. From the outside, it looked like an abandoned factory with rough red brick walls.
My heart tightened. Perhaps my parents were right. A meager wedding in an old warehouse. But I loved Jack. Even if he were the poorest plumber in the world, I would still marry him.
I took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy iron door.
And I was stunned.
Inside wasn’t a dusty warehouse. It was an architectural masterpiece.
The vast space had been renovated in an extremely luxurious Industrial Chic style. The ceilings soared, and chandeliers were made from… gleaming copper pipes, curving like sculptural works of art. Artificial waterfalls trickled down the walls, creating a magical, melodious sound. The polished concrete floor reflected the flickering candlelight.
But what surprised me most were the guests.
I had prepared myself to see Jack’s bricklayer and electrician friends. But no. In the front row was the Mayor of Boston. Next to him was the President of MIT. Scattered throughout the hall were CEOs of major technology corporations and leading architects from around the world.
Jack stood at the end of the aisle. He wasn’t wearing his grease-stained protective suit. He wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo that accentuated his strong physique. He looked at me and smiled – the gentle, genuine smile I had come to love, but today, in his eyes, there was also the confidence of a king in his kingdom.
I walked down the aisle strewn with white roses. Alone, but not lonely. Because hundreds of admiring eyes were watching me.
Chapter 3: The Secret of the “Plumber”
When the pastor declared us husband and wife, Jack kissed me passionately. The applause was thunderous.
After the ceremony, I pulled Jack’s hand and whispered, “Jack, what’s going on? Who are these people? And this place…?”
Jack smiled, stroking my cheek: “I’ve never lied to you, Elena. I’m a plumber. I have a proper degree.”
He picked up his champagne glass and walked onto the stage. The spotlights shone on him.
“Thank you all for being here,” Jack said into the microphone. “A special thank you to my wife, Elena, who loved me when I was just a guy in grease-stained overalls.”
The audience erupted in laughter.
“You all know me as the founder of GreenFlow Solutions,” Jack continued.
My jaw dropped. GreenFlow Solutions? That’s the environmental technology company that Forbes valued at $2 billion last month. They hold patents for water filtration and waste recycling systems for skyscrapers.
worldwide.
“But,” Jack looked at me, his eyes filled with love, “to Elena, I’m just Jack. She chose me when her family turned their backs on her. She chose me for who I am, not for my possessions. And that’s my greatest asset.”
Just then, a professional film crew entered. The logo on the camera was that of the national broadcaster NBC.
“And now,” Jack winked, “the ‘American Genius’ program is pleased to broadcast this wedding live as the conclusion to our documentary series about my life – from an ordinary plumber to the man who changed America’s water system.”
I was stunned. My wedding… being broadcast live nationwide?
Chapter 4: 223 Missed Calls
The next morning.
I woke up in the penthouse overlooking Boston Harbor – the house Jack had secretly bought six months earlier.
My head was still spinning with happiness and disbelief. Jack was standing on the balcony, making coffee, wearing only pajama bottoms, revealing his muscular bare back.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table. I’d turned it off the night before to fully enjoy our wedding night.
The screen lit up. A red notification number startled me:
223 missed calls. 150 text messages.
I scrolled through the list. Mom (45 calls), Dad (30 calls), Sister Clarissa (52 calls), Brother-in-law, Senator (20 calls), and dozens of calls from distant relatives, and “upper-class” friends who had mocked me when I publicly dated Jack.
I opened a voicemail from Mom. Her voice was no longer cold and contemptuous. She trembled, gasped, and spoke with a pathetic, obsequious tone:
“Elena! My dear daughter! Why didn’t you tell me Jack was the president of GreenFlow? Oh my God, I just saw you on TV! You looked like a queen! Your parents are so sorry they couldn’t come, Dad got… um… a sudden backache. Call me back right away! We need to have a get-together. What does Jack like to eat? Lobster? Call me right away!”
Next came a message from Clarissa: “Elena! I can’t believe it! My husband said Jack is the biggest donor to his opponent’s campaign! You have to help me! Tell Jack to talk to my husband! We’re sisters! Oh, I’m sorry about what happened the other day, I was just joking! Call back!”
I read the messages, listened to those fake pleas. “Plumbers are so shameful”—their words echoed in my head.
Jack walked in, set down his coffee cup, and looked at my phone screen.
“Your family?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” I replied. “They want to meet you. They want to have a party.”
“What do you want to do?” Jack asked, respecting my decision.
I looked at my wonderful husband – the man who had built his fortune from scratch, the man who had been humiliated by my family but had never uttered a word of complaint in front of me.
I smiled, the most relieved and free smile I’d ever had.
“You know, Jack,” I said, my finger gliding across the screen. “I think we should turn off our phones today. I want to go on our honeymoon.”
I pressed the “Block” button on my mother’s number. Then my father’s. Then Clarissa’s.
“They were right about one thing,” I said to Jack, tossing the phone aside. “Who would go to a plumber’s wedding? Those pretentious people don’t deserve to be there. And they certainly don’t deserve to be in our lives right now.”
Jack laughed loudly, lifting me up.
“That’s right, Mrs. Prescott… oh wait, Mrs. Reynolds. We have an entire plumbing system in the Maldives that needs ‘checking’.”
Outside the window, the world continued to spin, and the pretentious Prescotts were probably frantically trying to contact the “plumber” they once despised. But that door was sealed shut, by their own arrogance.
