That smell of fresh roses at the wedding still gets me. The starched white tablecloths, crystal glasses clinking, all that buzzing laughter – none of it covered how tiny they made me feel that day.
My name’s Eleanor Whitaker. Money was never something my family had. I juggled two jobs through uni, skipped meals sometimes just to make rent. Mum was a cleaner, Dad a jobbing builder. We never lacked love, but stability? That was always a bit thin on the ground.
Then I met William Ashford.
He was kind, clever, and properly down-to-earth, which you wouldn’t expect from someone born into that much brass. The papers loved calling him “The Billionaire in Blundstones” ’cause he’d rather wear those than posh loafers. We met in the unlikeliest spot – a little bookshop tucked away in a quiet part of London. I was working there part-time while doing my Master’s in education. He came in looking for a book on architecture, and we ended up chatting about Dickens and Austen for two solid hours.
It wasn’t all fairy tales, mind. We were worlds apart. I didn’t know my Beaujolais from my Bordeaux, and he had no clue what living hand-to-mouth was like. But it worked, with love, patience, and a fair bit of laughter.
When he proposed, his folks were polite enough, but I saw it in their eyes: I wasn’t what they pictured. To them, I was the bit of rough who’d somehow charmed their son. His mum, Celia, would smile at me during afternoon tea but then gently suggest I wear “something more understated” for family dos, like I needed proving. His sister, Georgiana, was worse. She’d half the time pretend I was invisible.
Still, I told myself they’d warm up. That love would bridge the gap.
Then came Georgiana’s wedding.
She was marrying some city banker – bloke who holidayed in the Côte d’Azur and had a yacht called Serenity. The guest list read like the Sunday Times society pages. William and I had just got back from volunteering abroad and flew straight into the grand National Trust estate where the wedding was happening.
The trouble started almost straight away.
“Eleanor, darling, you wouldn’t mind giving a hand with the place settings?” Georgiana chirped, sweet as anything, shoving a clipboard at me before my suitcase even hit the floor.
I blinked. “Course not. But isn’t that the wedding planner’s job?”
“Oh, she’s run off her feet. And you’re *so* organised, love. It’ll literally take two ticks.”
Those two ticks turned into hours.
I folded napkins, lugged boxes, even sorted the seating chart because Georgiana claimed I “knew how to keep things fair.” The other bridesmaids looked at me like I was staff. Nobody once asked if I fancied a cuppa, a sandwich, or just five minutes off my feet.
At the rehearsal dinner, Celia made sure I was seated three tables down from William – right next to the parking attendants.
I tried to laugh it off. Didn’t want to make a fuss.
Next morning, pulling on my blush dress – understated, naturally – I told myself, *It’s just today. Let her have it. You’re marrying the love of your life, that’s what counts.*
But then came the last straw.
At the reception, I was heading towards the top table to sit by William when Georgiana cut me off.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, resting her manicured hand on my arm, “the photographers need things balanced, yeah? We’re packed tight at the head table. Be an absolute gem and help the servers bring out the puddings?”
I stared. “You want me to serve cake?”
She beamed. “Just for the photos, promise. Then you can plonk right down!”
That’s when I spotted William across the room. He’d been collared by some family friend. He hadn’t heard. He hadn’t seen.
I was frozen. I felt the heat rush to my face, shame crashing over me like freezing rain. For a second, I nearly said yes. Old habits. Then someone knocked into me, splashing champagne down my frock – and Georgiana didn’t even flinch.
She just handed me a napkin.
That’s when William showed up behind her.
“What’s happening?” he asked, calm, but there was steel underneath.
Georgiana spun round, all smiles. “Oh, Will! Just asking Eleanor to help serve cake. She’s wonderfully practical, isn’t she? Suits her.”
William looked at me, then at the napkin, then at the faint stain on my dress.
And then… everything stopped.
He walked over to the mic near the band. Tapped it twice. The room hushed. Hundreds of eyes fixed on him.
“Hope everyone’s enjoying this lovely wedding,” he started. “Georgiana, Marcus, congratulations. Place looks smashing, food’s top-notch. But before we cut the cake, need to say something.”
My stomach dropped.
“Many of you know me as William Ashford – of Ashford Holdings, the Rich List, whatever titles get chucked about. But none of that matters half as much as the woman I love. The one standing here.”
He reached out for my hand.
“This is Eleanor. She’s my fiancée. Sharp, kind, puts in more graft than anyone I’ve ever met. But today? She was treated like hired help. Like she didn’t belong.”
A stunned silence fell.
“And that,” he went on, “is bang out of order. Not just ’cause she’s my other half, but ’cause it’s wrong. No one – *no one* – should feel small in a room full of people who reckon they know about love. So if me being here suggests I’m okay with that, let’s be crystal clear – I’m not.”
Georgiana’s jaw clamped shut. Celia had gone pale.
William turned to me. “Eleanor, you deserve better than this. Come on.”
We walked out. Just like that.
He wrote off the rest of the party without a second thought. We got in his car and drove, still in our wedding gear. Nobody followed.
We pulled into a little service station greasy spoon, ordered a stack of pancakes, and shared a knickerbocker glory. He took off his jacket, draped it over my shoulders, and said, “Sorry it took me so long to clock it.”
“Didn’t want to ruin her big day,” I whispered.
“You didn’t,” he said. “You saved mine, more like.”
That night, he booked a cottage in the Lake District, and we eloped two days later under skies full of stars. No seating plans. No champagne fountains. Just us, a local vicar, and the wind as our witness.
In the months after, we got chilly calls from family. Georgiana sent a half-arsed apology, more about saving face than being sorry. Celia invited us for tea “to smooth things over.”
William turned them all down.
“I won’t have you feeling like you need to shrink to fit into my world, Elle,” he told me. “Let’s build our own.”
And we did.
I went back to uni, started a charity for kids on rough estates. He funded it quietly, never took any credit. We bought a comfy house by the lakeshore, not a stately home, filled it with laughter, books, and rescue dogs.
People think wealth makes life easy. But I’ve learned it’s love that truly lifts you up.
So yeah, they treated me
And now, every single morning waking up next to him, our rescue dogs snoozing at our feet in our cozy little lakeside house, I know without a doubt that choosing a life rich with love was the absolute best decision I ever made.
