After twelve years of marriage and two children, my husband made a decision that shocked me to the core: he thought I wasn’t worthy enough to attend his high school reunion. Instead, he paid a beautiful stranger to pretend to be his wife. What he didn’t expect was the surprise I’d planned for him—one that would make his embarrassment unforgettable.
I married Ethan when I was 23.
We were college sweethearts, young and idealistic, believing love and hard work could conquer anything. Back then, he was starting his career at a tech startup, and I was working as a preschool teacher, struggling to make ends meet. We lived in a tiny studio apartment furnished with hand-me-downs, surviving on instant noodles and the joy of being together. But we were happy. Truly, we were.
Things began to change when Ethan hit his mid-thirties. He got promoted. Then promoted again. Suddenly, our closet was filled with designer suits, a luxury car sat in the driveway, and we dined at places where the menu didn’t list prices.
After the birth of our second child—a C-section that left me with a scar I tried hard not to resent—I noticed the shift in his behavior. He stopped looking at me the same way. His gaze would pass over me as if I were just another piece of furniture in the room.
I was juggling two young children, managing a household, and squeezing in freelance graphic design work whenever I could. My body had changed, and I was always tired.
And Ethan? He had a new mantra every time I asked for something.
“We’re tight on money this month, babe.”
“You don’t really need new clothes. What you have is fine.”
I believed him. I genuinely thought we were struggling financially, even as he continued buying himself new watches, laptops, and spending weekends on golf outings with colleagues.
But me asking for a babysitter so I could get a haircut? That was unnecessary spending.
Then one evening in late September, Ethan came home buzzing with excitement. “My 20th high school reunion is next month!” For the next two weeks, it was all he could talk about.
One night at dinner, he casually dropped the first hint.
“You know,” he said, “most people don’t bring their spouses to these things. It’s just old friends catching up.”
I glanced up from helping our daughter with her food. “Really? I thought reunions usually allowed plus-ones.”
He shrugged, avoiding my eyes. “You’d probably be bored. It’s not really your crowd.”
That hurt more than I wanted to admit.
A week later, I saw him trying on a new suit—a stunning charcoal Italian blazer. The price tag made my stomach drop.
“Big meeting?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied quickly. “Work-related. I need to look sharp.”
I raised an eyebrow. “But didn’t you say we couldn’t afford to fix the dishwasher last week?”
He looked at me with that condescending patience that made me feel small. “Emma, this is an investment in my career. The dishwasher can wait. We’ll wash dishes by hand.”
Right. By “we,” he meant me.
Two nights before the reunion, I noticed he was glued to his phone more than usual. Smiling at the screen, typing quickly, then putting it face down on the table.
“Who are you texting?” I asked.
“Just Mark. He’s helping organize the reunion.”
But something didn’t feel right.
The next morning, after 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 the messages. Business stuff. Amazon receipts. Spam. Then I found it.
Subject line: “Confirmation – Event Date Package – October 14th”
From: Elite Companions Inc.
My hands shook as I clicked the email.
The invoice was clear, itemized, and chilling.
Event date, one evening: $400
Wardrobe consultation: $100
Additional briefing session: $100
Role: Spouse
Affection level: Light (hand-holding, arm-linking allowed)
Total: $600
Attached was a photo of a beautiful blonde woman, probably 27, with perfect skin and a smile that looked too practiced to be real. Her name was Chloe.
I opened the thread.
Ethan had been in contact with someone named Sandra at the agency. Then I saw it—my photo from five years ago, before my second pregnancy.
Sandra wrote: “Perfect! Chloe will study this photo to answer basic questions convincingly. We recommend keeping interactions brief with anyone who may have met the real spouse.”
Ethan responded: “No problem. I just need Chloe to look the part for a few hours. My wife isn’t in her best shape right now. Don’t want any awkward moments.”
I read that line three times.
My wife isn’t in her best shape right now.
Ethan was ashamed of me. So ashamed he’d rather pay a stranger $600 than bring me, his actual wife, to the reunion.
I closed the laptop with trembling hands.
That night, when Ethan came home, I waited for him in the kitchen.
“We need to talk,” I said.
He sighed, already annoyed. “Can it wait? I’m tired.”
“No, it can’t.”
He looked at me, sensing the change in my tone.
“I found the invoice,” I said quietly. “From Elite Companions.”
His face went pale. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.
“It’s not what you think,” he finally muttered.
I laughed, coldly. “Really? You hired a model to pretend to be your wife at the reunion? Am I wrong?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Emma, it’s about appearances. Everyone there is successful now. CEOs, entrepreneurs, influencers. They’ll have trophy wives and fancy cars. I didn’t want to look like I settled.”
Settled.
That word hung between us like a dagger. “You think marrying me was settling?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean? Because from where I’m standing, you’re saying I’m not good enough to be seen with you.”
He sighed, rubbing his temples like I was the one giving him a headache. “You’ve been stressed. You said you haven’t felt confident since the baby. I thought this would make things easier.”
“It’s one night, Emma. One night where I don’t have to explain why my wife looks tired and uncomfortable. What’s so wrong with that?”
I stared at him, realizing that the man I had loved for twelve years was a stranger.
“Get out,” I whispered.
He left, slamming the guest room door behind him.
I stood in the kitchen, hands shaking, feeling a cold clarity settle over me.
I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t going to beg him to see me as beautiful.
I was going to make sure he regretted this.
At 10 p.m., I called my best friend Rachel. “I need your help. I’m planning something.”
Rachel laughed. “Please tell me you’re plotting revenge.”
“I am,” I said. “But I need you to help me make this unforgettable.”
Rachel was a professional photographer. “I’m in. What’s the plan?”
“I have to talk to Melissa.”
Melissa had been part of the reunion planning committee, and I had kept in touch with her over the years. I told her everything the next day.
Her reaction was pure shock. Then, the fire lit in her eyes. “This is perfect,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for a reason to take Ethan down a peg.”
“I need a photo of me and Ethan—our wedding photo. And you, with your camera, Rachel.”
We put the plan into motion.
The night of the reunion arrived.
It was at the Lakeside Country Club. I spent hours getting ready—hair professionally styled, makeup perfect but understated. Rachel helped me pick a gown that made me feel like I was the woman I once was.
We entered separately. Rachel went in first, blending in with the crowd. I followed a few minutes later.
I saw him almost immediately. Ethan, looking sharp in his expensive suit. And next to him, Chloe—the woman he had hired to play his wife.
I watched from a distance as Rachel positioned herself with her camera.
Then, around 9 p.m., Melissa made her move. She stepped onto the small stage and announced, “Before we announce the class superlatives, we have a special treat: a ‘Then and Now’ slideshow.”
The room filled with laughter and nostalgia as old photos flashed on the screen.
Then came the “Now” section. Wedding photos, baby pictures, family portraits.
I watched Ethan, relaxed and smiling. But then, Slide 47 appeared.
It was our real wedding photo. Ethan in a rented tux. Me in a simple white dress, grinning with him.
The caption: “Ethan and Emma — 12 years of marriage!”
Ethan’s smile faltered.
The next slide showed a photo Rachel had taken that night—Ethan and Chloe walking in together, his arm around her waist.
The caption: “Some people grow with their partners. Others rent them for $600.”
Silence.
Then, gasps.
Ethan’s face drained of color. Chloe stepped back, eyes wide.
I walked out from behind the floral arrangement, my heels clicking on the floor as the crowd parted for me.
“Hello everyone,” I said, voice steady. “I’m Emma. Ethan’s real wife. The one he’s been married to for twelve years. The one who gave him two beautiful daughters.