The $600 Fake Wife and the Real Woman Who Got Her Revenge
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 beautiful stranger to pretend to be me.
But what he didn’t know was that I already had a surprise planned—one that would turn his fancy little reunion into the most unforgettable humiliation of his life.
I married Ben when I was twenty-three.
We were college sweethearts, the kind of couple that believed love could survive anything. Back then, he was just starting out at a tech startup, and I was teaching preschool for barely enough to fill my gas tank.
We lived in a tiny studio apartment filled with secondhand furniture and hand-me-down dreams. Our meals were instant noodles, and our dates were Netflix and cheap wine. But we were happy. God, we were so happy.
Things started changing in his mid-thirties. Ben climbed the ladder fast. Promotion after promotion. Suddenly, there were sleek suits hanging in our closet, a shiny car in the driveway, and dinner reservations at restaurants where the menu didn’t even bother listing prices.
After our second child was born—another C-section that left a scar I learned to hide—something shifted.
Ben stopped seeing me. Literally. His eyes would just slide past me like I was wallpaper, something he’d gotten used to but no longer noticed.
Meanwhile, I was juggling two toddlers, running the house, and squeezing in freelance graphic design jobs whenever the kids napped. My body had changed, my energy was gone, and my confidence… well, it was hanging by a thread.
Ben had a new favorite phrase:
“We’re tight this month, babe.”
or
“You don’t really need new clothes. What you have is fine.”
And I believed him. I thought we were struggling financially—until I saw him with new gadgets, expensive watches, and golf weekends “for networking.”
But when I asked for a babysitter so I could finally get my hair done, he said that was frivolous.
One evening in late September, he came home buzzing with excitement.
“My 20th high school reunion’s next month!” he said.
For the next two weeks, it was all he talked about.
Then one night over dinner, he said it—casually, like he was commenting on the weather.
“You know, most people don’t bring their spouses to these things. It’s more like old friends catching up.”
I blinked at him. “Really? I thought reunions usually have plus-ones.”
He shrugged without meeting my eyes.
“You’d probably be bored anyway. It’s not really your crowd.”
That one stung. More than I wanted to admit.
A week later, I found him trying on a sleek charcoal suit—so sharp it could cut glass. The tag said $900.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
He hesitated a moment too long.
“Work thing. Big client meeting. Gotta look the part.”
I folded my arms. “Didn’t you say we couldn’t afford to fix the dishwasher last week?”
He sighed, giving me that patronizing smile that made my stomach twist.
“Claire, this is an investment in my career. The dishwasher can wait. We can wash dishes by hand.”
By we, of course, he meant me.
Two nights before the reunion, I noticed he was glued to his phone. Smiling at messages. Typing quickly. Then flipping it face down whenever I walked by.
“Who are you texting?” I asked.
“Just my buddy Mark. He’s helping organize the reunion.”
But something in his tone didn’t sound right.
The next morning, after he left for the gym, curiosity and dread got the better of me. I opened his laptop—something I’d never done before.
His email was still logged in.
There it was.
Subject: “Confirmation – Event Date Package – October 14th.”
From: Elite Companions Inc.
My hands started to shake. I clicked it open.
The invoice was clear, professional—and devastating.
Event date, one evening: $400
Wardrobe consultation: $100
Briefing session: $100
Role: Spouse
Affection level: Light (hand-holding, arm-linking acceptable)
Total: $600
Attached was a photo of a woman who looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine—blonde, flawless, probably in her twenties. Her name was Chloe.
Then I saw the message thread between Ben and someone named Sandra.
Sandra had written:
“Perfect! Chloe will study this so she can answer basic questions convincingly. We recommend keeping interactions brief with anyone who might know the real spouse.”
And Ben had replied:
“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.”
My breath caught. I read that line over and over until the words blurred.
My wife isn’t really in her best shape right now.
He was embarrassed of me.
So embarrassed, he’d rather rent a fake wife than bring the real one.
Then I saw another email.
Subject: “Talking Points for Saturday.”
It was an actual script.
Met in college (keep it vague)
Two kids, ages 4 and 6You work in marketing
Live in Riverside Heights
Married 8 years
He’d even rewritten our marriage to make it sound neater.
I shut the laptop carefully. Then I ran to the bathroom and threw up.
That night, when Ben came home, I was waiting for him.
“We need to talk,” I said.
He groaned. “Can it wait? I’m exhausted.”
“No. It can’t.”
Something in my voice made him stop.
“I found the invoice,” I said. “From Elite Companions.”
He froze. His face drained of color.
“It’s not what you think,” he said quickly.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh really? Because I think you hired a model to pretend to be me. Am I wrong?”
He rubbed his temples, sighing.
“Claire, listen. These reunions are full of people who’ve made it big—entrepreneurs, CEOs, influencers. I just didn’t want to look like I… settled.”
“Settled?” I repeated, my voice shaking. “You think I’m what you settled for?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Then what did you mean?” I snapped.
He ran a hand through his hair.
“You’ve been stressed, you’ve said yourself you don’t feel confident. I just thought it would be easier this way. One night where I don’t have to explain why my wife looks… exhausted.”
I stared at him—this man I’d loved for twelve years—until the anger burned clean through the heartbreak.
“Get out,” I said.
He left without another word.
But I didn’t cry. Not this time.
Something inside me hardened into resolve.
I called my best friend Rachel that night.
I told her everything—the fake wife, the invoice, the lies.
There was silence on the line, then she burst out laughing.
“Please tell me you’re planning revenge.”
“Oh, I’m planning something,” I said. “And I need your help.”
Rachel, a professional photographer, instantly agreed.
“I’m in. What do you need?”
“I need to talk to Melissa,” I said.
Melissa had gone to school with Ben. I remembered she was on the reunion planning committee. I sent her a message:
“Hey Melissa! Are you still helping with Ben’s reunion next weekend?”
She replied in minutes:
“Yep! Why?”
“Can we meet for coffee? I’ve got something you’ll want to hear.”
We met the next day. I told her everything.
She blinked, then nearly shouted,
“He hired a fake wife? Are you kidding me?”
I nodded. “Because he’s embarrassed of me.”
Melissa leaned in, her grin sharp.
“Claire, I’ve been waiting for a reason to knock Ben off his high horse. Let’s make this epic.”
So we did.
Saturday night arrived. The reunion was held at the Lakeside Country Club, glittering with fairy lights and laughter.
Rachel helped me get ready—a deep blue gown that hugged me in all the right places, my hair styled perfectly, makeup soft but powerful.
When I looked in the mirror, for the first time in a long time, I saw me.
“You ready for this?” Rachel asked as we parked behind the building.
I smiled. “I’ve never been more ready.”
Inside, Ben looked every inch the successful man he wanted to be—in his perfect suit, drink in hand.
And next to him stood Chloe, the fake wife. She was breathtaking. All gloss and glamor.
Rachel slipped away to blend in with the photographers. Melissa gave me a small nod from across the room. Showtime.
Ben was introducing Chloe around, smiling proudly.
“This is my wife,” he said.
And I waited.
Then, when the lights dimmed for the “Then and Now” slideshow, Melissa stepped on stage.
“Before we announce the class superlatives,” she said brightly, “we’ve got something special—a little trip down memory lane!”
The room filled with laughter and nostalgia as baby photos and prom pictures flashed by.
Then came our wedding photo. Ben and I, beaming, so young, so full of love.
Caption: Ben and Claire – 12 years of marriage!
Ben’s smile faltered.
The next slide appeared.
A photo Rachel had just taken that night: Ben and Chloe walking into the venue together.
Caption: Some people grow with their partners. Others rent them for $600.
Gasps filled the room.
“Wait, is that…?”
“Oh my God!”
Ben’s face turned gray. Chloe froze, her perfect smile gone.
That’s when I walked forward, heels clicking, every eye on me.
“Hi everyone,” I said calmly. “I’m Claire. Ben’s real wife. The one he’s been married to for twelve years. The one who gave him two beautiful daughters. The one who, apparently, isn’t in her best shape.”
Rachel’s camera flashed again.
Chloe bolted. Ben just stood there, speechless.
“You planned this!” he finally stammered. “You humiliated me in front of everyone!”
I smiled sweetly.
“No, sweetheart. You humiliated yourself. I just made sure everyone saw it.”
Someone clapped. Then another.
Within seconds, the whole room erupted in applause.
I turned and walked out with my head high.
By Monday morning, everyone knew. The photos were all over the alumni Facebook group.
Comments flooded in:
“He really paid someone to pretend to be his wife?”
“What was he thinking?”
“His real wife is stunning!”
Ben tried damage control, but the screenshots and invoices said it all.
Even worse—his boss had been at the reunion.
By Tuesday, Ben was put on “temporary leave.” That $600 fake wife cost him his six-figure job.
When he stormed home days later, he shouted,
“Are you happy now? You ruined everything!”
I looked up from the divorce papers I was reviewing.
“I didn’t ruin anything, Ben. You did. I just turned the lights on.”
“I’m going to lose my job!”
“You should’ve thought of that before you hired a fake wife.”
“It was one mistake, Claire!”
I stood up, my voice steady.
“No. It was years of disrespect. Years of making me feel small. This was just the day you finally got caught.”
I handed him the envelope.
“Divorce papers. You’ve been served.”
“Claire…” he whispered.
“Get out of my house,” I said.
He left. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel broken. I felt free.
Three months later, I’ve built a new life.
A cozy townhouse. My daughters. Peace.
Ben wanted a trophy wife.
Now he’s just a sad story people whisper about.
And me?
I’m finally learning that I was never the one who wasn’t enough.
He was.