“The $600 Wife”
After twelve years of marriage and two kids, my husband decided I wasn’t “good enough” to take to his high school reunion.
So, he paid a stunning stranger to pretend to be his wife instead.
What he didn’t know was that I had already planned a surprise — one that would make his humiliation legendary.
I married Ben when I was twenty-three.
We were college sweethearts who truly believed that love and determination could beat anything life threw at us.
He worked at a tiny tech startup back then, barely making ends meet. I was a preschool teacher, earning just enough for gas money and cheap groceries. We lived in a cramped studio apartment with furniture we’d picked up from garage sales.
Our dinners were often instant ramen and canned soup — but somehow, we were happy. We’d fall asleep laughing about our dreams for the future, believing that someday we’d have it all.
But then, time changed everything.
By the time Ben hit his mid-thirties, his career exploded. Promotion after promotion. Suddenly, there were sharp new suits in our closet, a shiny car in the driveway, and dinners at restaurants where the menus didn’t even have prices.
At first, I was proud. I thought, We did it.
But after our second child was born — another C-section that left me with a scar and a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore — Ben’s eyes stopped lighting up when he looked at me. Actually, he stopped looking at me at all.
He’d walk into a room and look through me, like I was just part of the furniture. Meanwhile, I was juggling two kids under five, managing the house, and taking on small freelance graphic design jobs just to help with bills. I barely slept, and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the tired woman staring back.
Whenever I mentioned needing something — a haircut, a new outfit, even a babysitter — Ben had the same reply.
“We’re tight this month, babe.”
“You don’t really need new clothes. What you have is fine.”
And like a fool, I believed him.
I actually thought we were struggling financially — even while he was buying himself new watches, new gadgets, and going on weekend golf trips.
But me? I was told to “wait.”
Then, one September evening, he came home glowing with excitement.
“My 20th high school reunion is next month!” he announced, grinning ear to ear.
For the next two weeks, that was all he talked about. He’d go on and on about who was coming, what everyone was up to, what car so-and-so was driving.
Then, one night at dinner, he said the words that should’ve been my warning.
“You know,” he began casually, cutting into his steak, “most people don’t bring their spouses to these things. It’s really just old friends catching up.”
I frowned, helping our youngest cut her chicken.
“Really? I thought reunions usually had plus-ones.”
He shrugged, not meeting my eyes.
“You’d probably be bored anyway. It’s not really your crowd.”
That stung more than I wanted to admit.
The following week, I found him in front of the mirror trying on a brand-new charcoal Italian suit. I glanced at the tag and nearly choked.
“Nine hundred dollars?!”
He didn’t even blink.
“It’s for work. Big client meeting. I have to look sharp.”
“Didn’t you say we couldn’t afford to fix the dishwasher?”
He sighed, that condescending sigh that made me feel two inches tall.
“Claire, this is an investment in my career. We can wash dishes by hand for a few more weeks.”
By “we,” of course, he meant me.
Two nights before the reunion, he was glued to his phone — smiling, typing, then quickly setting it face-down whenever I walked by.
“Who are you texting?” I asked lightly.
“Just my buddy Mark. He’s helping organize the reunion.”
Something about his tone was… off.
The next morning, when he left for the gym, I did something I’d never done before. I opened his laptop.
His email was still logged in.
I scrolled through his inbox — work messages, receipts, spam — and then I saw it.
Subject: Confirmation – Event Date Package – October 14th
From: Elite Companions Inc.
My hands started shaking. I clicked it open.
The invoice was clear and horrifying.
Event date (one evening): $400
Wardrobe consultation: $100
Briefing session: $100
Role: Spouse
Affection level: Light (hand-holding, arm-linking acceptable)
Total: $600
And attached was a photo of her.
A gorgeous blonde woman with flawless skin and perfect teeth. Her name was listed as Chloe.
There were also email exchanges. One from the agency said:
“Perfect! Chloe will study this photo to answer basic questions convincingly. Keep interactions brief with anyone who might have met the real spouse.”
And Ben’s reply made me physically sick.
“Won’t be an issue. I just need Chloe to look the part for a few hours. My wife isn’t really in her best shape right now. Don’t want to deal with the awkwardness.”
I stared at that line until the words blurred.
My wife isn’t in her best shape right now.
That was what he thought of me — the woman who had given him twelve years, two children, and every ounce of love I had left.
There was another email, too.
Subject: “Talking Points for Saturday.”
It listed everything his fake wife needed to know — where we supposedly lived, how long we’d been “married,” what “job” she had. He’d basically written a script for his make-believe marriage.
I closed the laptop and went straight to the bathroom — and threw up.
That night, when Ben came home, I was waiting.
“We need to talk,” I said quietly.
He looked annoyed.
“Can it wait? I’m exhausted.”
“No. It can’t.”
Something in my voice made him pause.
“I found the invoice,” I said. “From Elite Companions.”
His face turned white.
“It’s not what you think—”
“Really?” I laughed bitterly. “Because it looks like you paid a woman to pretend to be your wife. Am I wrong?”
He rubbed his temples.
“Claire, it’s just optics! Everyone’s successful now. CEOs, influencers… I didn’t want to look like I settled.”
“Settled?” I whispered. “You think marrying me was settling?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he snapped. “You’ve been stressed, you said you don’t feel confident. I just thought it’d be easier this way. It’s one night, Claire! One night where I don’t have to explain why my wife looks exhausted and uncomfortable. Is that really so terrible?”
That was it. That was the moment the love I had left for him turned into something cold and hard.
“Get out,” I said softly.
He left, slamming the guest room door upstairs.
I stood in the kitchen shaking — not with tears, but with clarity. I wasn’t going to beg. I wasn’t going to cry.
I was going to teach him a lesson.
At 10 p.m., I called my best friend Rachel.
I told her everything — the invoice, the fake wife, all of it.
There was silence. Then Rachel started laughing.
“Please tell me you’re planning revenge.”
“Oh, I’m planning something,” I said. “And I need your help.”
Rachel was a professional photographer. “I need you at the reunion. With your camera.”
“I’m in,” she said immediately.
Then I called Melissa — an old friend of Ben’s from high school who happened to be on the reunion planning committee.
We met for coffee the next morning, and when I told her what Ben had done, she slammed her cup down.
“He hired a fake wife? Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
She leaned in, eyes gleaming.
“Claire, I’ve been waiting years for someone to knock Ben off his pedestal. Let’s make this legendary.”
We planned everything.
The night of the reunion, I got ready like it was a movie premiere. Rachel helped me pick a navy-blue gown that hugged me in all the right places. My hair was perfect. My makeup flawless.
“You ready for this?” Rachel asked as we parked behind the venue.
“More than ready.”
The Lakeside Country Club sparkled under fairy lights. Inside, laughter and jazz music filled the ballroom.
I spotted Ben immediately — looking handsome in that expensive suit, with Chloe on his arm. She was stunning, of course, smiling like she’d won some prize.
Rachel whispered, “Deep breaths. Showtime.”
Melissa gave me a subtle nod from across the room.
At nine, she walked onto the stage.
“Hi everyone! Before we do the class superlatives, let’s enjoy our ‘Then and Now’ slideshow!”
The crowd cheered as photos began — prom pictures, graduation day memories. Everyone was laughing, relaxed.
Then, slide 47 appeared.
Our real wedding photo.
Ben and I, young and beaming. Caption:
“Ben and Claire – 12 years of marriage!”
Ben froze. Chloe blinked, confused.
Then came the next slide.
A fresh photo Rachel had taken that night: Ben and Chloe walking into the reunion together. Caption:
“Some people grow with their partners. Others rent them for $600.”
The room went dead silent.
“Wait, is that…?”
“Oh my God!”
Ben’s face turned gray. Chloe gasped and ran for the door.
I stepped forward, heels clicking against the floor.
“Hi everyone,” I said clearly. “I’m Claire. Ben’s real wife. The one he’s been married to for twelve years. The one who gave him two daughters. The one who, apparently, isn’t in her ‘best shape.’”
The room erupted in whispers.
Rachel’s camera flashed.
Ben looked at me like I’d stabbed him.
“You planned this,” he hissed. “You humiliated me!”
“No,” I said calmly. “You humiliated yourself. I just made sure everyone could see it.”
Someone started clapping. Then another.
Soon, the entire room was applauding.
I walked out with my head high, Rachel right behind me.
By Monday, the photos were everywhere.
Someone uploaded them to the alumni Facebook group with the caption:
“Best reunion drama EVER.”
The comments were merciless.
“He really paid someone to pretend to be his wife?”
“His real wife is gorgeous! What an idiot.”
Then came the fallout. Ben’s boss had been at the reunion. By Tuesday, he was on “temporary leave” for “unprofessional conduct.”
That $600 “date” ended up costing him his six-figure job.
When he came home raging, shouting, “Are you happy now? You ruined everything!” I simply handed him the divorce papers.
“I didn’t ruin anything,” I said. “You did. I just turned on the lights so everyone could see.”
He sputtered, “It was one mistake!”
“No, Ben. It was years of making me feel small. This was just the day you got caught.”
He had no words.
“Get out,” I said quietly. “You’ve been served.”
Three months later, I’m living peacefully in a little townhouse with my daughters. We laugh, we cook together, we’re happy.
Ben wanted a trophy wife.
Now, he’s just a cautionary tale — and I’ve finally learned that I am enough, exactly as I am.