I remember that message like it was yesterday. It was three in the afternoon on a dead weekday. The client had been referred by someone I trusted, and he got straight to the point: he needed me for a business dinner. The guy he was about to close the deal with was one of those family-man types, and since he was single, he wanted to show off a hot young wife on his arm. “No offense,” he wrote, “but can you go more low-key? Like… pretend you’re my wife?”
I read it, chuckled at how fucking stupid men can be about their business bullshit, and thought the whole thing was hilarious. But lying always left a sour taste in my mouth—like I knew that sooner or later someone would spot a detail that didn’t add up and I’d come off looking like a liar. Still, I said yes. The restaurant was one of those expensive spots where real money eats, all-you-can-eat food, dim lighting, crystal glasses clinking. I’d have been crazy to turn it down. The money was already dancing in my head, but there was also that hot curiosity: what would it feel like to play someone’s wife for an entire night?
I took a long shower, like I always do before any job. The hot water ran down my skin and I felt my body relax, but my mind was already racing ahead, picturing the scene. I dried my hair carefully, letting the strands fall loose over my shoulders, soft and almost innocent-looking. Then I went to the closet. I opened the doors and let my eyes scan through a sea of clothes, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to wear. There was so much shit in there—body-hugging dresses, necklines that plunged to my stomach, skirts that barely covered my thighs, everything picked to show skin, to tease, to make a man forget his own name. But none of it worked for “wife.”
I stood there naked in front of the closet, staring at that ocean of fabric that screamed “whore” in every stitch. A party dress? No fucking way. That’d be like bringing a spotlight to a candlelit dinner. I touched the silk of one of them, felt the cool fabric against my palm, and a little wave of melancholy hit me. How many times had I dressed up to be wanted in the most obvious way? And now, to be invisible in the best sense, I had nothing.
I sighed, smiled at my reflection in the mirror on the door—that smile that mixed slutty with a little self-tenderness—and thought: “Let’s see what I can pull off with what I’ve got.” For a second I felt sorry for him—that guy who had to pay someone to pretend to love him in front of other people. Pity, curiosity, and, yeah, I’ll admit it, a secret little thrill about seeing how far I could take the act.
I remember the bedroom turning into a total fucking mess of clothes. Half the closet ended up on the bed, everything tangled up, and the clock on the nightstand just kept spinning. “Fuck, I’m gonna be late,” I muttered, already feeling my stomach tighten. I was genuinely stressed. Nothing worked.
My phone kept buzzing nonstop on the mattress. He was sending message after message with fashion tips that made me want to laugh and cuss him out at the same time. Especially to me, who actually studied this shit. It was like the guy was terrified I’d show up in a red latex tube dress and heels that were way too high. I read them and shook my head, half amused by his panic, half feeling a twinge of pity—he needed that lie so badly he couldn’t even trust me not to blow it.
That’s when I got the idea. Stupid, but perfect. I grabbed a pair of straight khaki pants, comfortable ones I wear when I want to disappear in a crowd. Threw on a basic black blouse, flat sandals, and a neutral blazer over it. Discreet jewelry and a light perfume, almost no scent. Anyone who saw me on the street would swear I was headed to some random office job, not going on a paid date.
I climbed up on top of the closet, stretching my arm as far as I could, and pulled down my old college binder. The cover had Stitch on it, that blue little monster with the mischievous look staring back at me. For a second it was hilarious. I brushed the dust off quick, blew away what was left, and tucked it firmly under my arm. “This is it,” I thought, smiling to myself. “It’s gonna work.”
In the Uber, which was crawling slower than shit, I flipped through the info he’d sent me and snooped on his social media. I wanted to know who I was going to bed with that night—not with my body, but with the story. Traffic wasn’t helping. “Shit, I’m gonna be really late,” I thought, biting the corner of my lip. And that’s exactly what happened.
Almost forty minutes past the agreed time, I walked into the restaurant. I gave my name at the front, felt the hostess’s quick once-over from head to toe. She led me to the table with a polite smile. I walked holding the books and the blazer folded over my arm, my heart beating a little harder than I wanted to admit.
I remember walking in with my heart pounding in my throat, clutching that college binder to my chest like a shield. It wasn’t just being late that had me nervous. It was the feeling of stepping onto a stage with no rehearsal, with a man I barely knew expecting me to be his perfect wife for a few hours.
I walked slowly between the tables, glancing at every face, fear tightening my throat: what if I picked the wrong guy? People lie so much on social media, picking the best photos that don’t look anything like their real face. Imagine me hugging the wrong client, calling him “baby” in front of his actual wife. What a fucking disaster that would be.
But then I saw him. Sitting there, shoulders a little hunched, anxious eyes scanning the door.
I put on the face of a lost puppy, eyes watering, almost crying for real because I knew how much this mattered to him and I, as his wife, hadn’t even managed to show up on time. Before anyone could say a word, I blurted out, voice coming out all choked up:
“Baby, I’m so sorry… I got stuck at school with some stupid exam, I was awful. Look how I’m dressed, I didn’t even have time to get ready for dinner. I feel like complete shit.”
I swear I almost cried for real. He just froze, blinking fast, like he hadn’t expected me to be that good at it.
The client’s wife—who, judging by her age and the vibe, was actually his wife, not some trophy—stood up right away and came over to comfort me, putting her hand on my arm with a tenderness that caught me off guard.
“Look, sweetheart, don’t worry. Now I feel more at ease. He sprung this dinner on me last minute, said it was important, and I didn’t even get a chance to get ready either. You’re beautiful and you don’t need any fancy clothes.”
“No clothes at all.” How many men had said that to me before, with a very different intention, and I almost laughed in her face right there. But I held it in, lowered my eyes, faked embarrassment, and thanked her with a small smile.
The dinner went great in the end. They talked sports, travel, business. His wife spent the whole night giving me maternity tips, like I really was some young, clueless wife. I listened, agreed, laughed at the right moments, his hand occasionally brushing mine on the table—a light touch, almost shy, like he needed to convince himself it was real.
When it was over, he dropped me off at home. Paid me a generous extra, super grateful, saying I’d saved the night. I still invited him, all playful, with that tone only I know how to use:
“Wanna come up? A little after-hours, just the two of us…”
He turned it down immediately, face going red.
“Sorry, I don’t go out with escorts.”
“Right,” I thought, walking into the building lobby, laughing to myself at that idiot. I closed the elevator doors and rested my forehead against the cold metal. The laugh came out low, mixed with this strange pity for him—a man who paid a lot to pretend he had a life he didn’t, but when it came to actually taking what was real, flesh and desire, he backed off like a scared kid. The performance had been good, fun. But, I’ll admit, it left a bitter aftertaste—the kind that comes from knowing that, deep down, everyone there was acting in some way.