My stomach knotted. I dropped my phone on the counter and looked at the wedding chaos in our tiny Denver apartment. Mason was pulling double shifts at the construction site downtown. I was teaching extra assignments at three different schools. We’d scrimped for months just for a small church rental and a reception at the community center. The bitter irony: my parents, Dr. Patricia Jones and attorney Richard Jones, always droned on about character over wealth. But here they were, dismissing Mason—the kindest, hardest‑working man I knew—because he didn’t have a trust fund or a fancy degree.

Mason walked in then, boots heavy with sawdust and concrete powder, his dark hair wild. But his green eyes—always so quick to find mine—filled with instant concern.

“What’s wrong, Ella?”

I handed him my phone in silence. He read the texts, his jaw tightening with each line.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pulling me close, whispering into my hair. “I know how much you wanted them there.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, my voice cracking. “They’re snobs, but I just never imagined getting married without my parents. Mom was supposed to help with my dress. Dad, walk me down the aisle.”

Mason pulled back, cupping my face with his calloused hands. “We don’t need their approval, L. We never did. And honestly, my family—they’re going to love you so much you’ll forget all about them.”