I was about to get married, but I fell for his brother! How do I sort out this chaos?
My name is Emily Brown, and I live in York, where the River Ouse meanders through historic streets. I’m 28 and in despair—I need your advice, your perspective. I’ve had a string of failed romances: I’ve been betrayed, abandoned, used, leaving me with a broken heart. So, when I met Oliver by the English seaside, his persistent attention didn’t win me over immediately. I kept my distance, thinking it would be just a light holiday flirtation. But he was different—polite, intelligent, honest to the core. Oliver confessed that he was struck by my beauty, my mind, my manners, and that I was the one he wanted to build a family with and walk through life until his last breath. He had a prestigious job, stability, confidence—he could provide for a wife and children.
Our connection didn’t end after the holiday. I returned to York, and he to London, where he was from. Every evening, he called without being intrusive, and on Fridays, he would come see me—we spent weekends together, growing closer by the day. Gradually, I believed he was right; we were meant for each other. Both of us were mature, with experience, ready for serious steps. His love was stronger than mine, and it gave me hope that I’d no longer be burned by men’s games and infidelity. When I finally said “yes” to his proposal, Oliver took me to London to meet his parents. They welcomed me warmly, with smiles, even voicing their approval of their son’s choice. In their presence, he ceremoniously placed a stunning engagement ring on my finger, and his mother took me to a jeweler’s to choose a gold necklace and earrings. She insisted that I decide what I liked—it was deeply touching.
We set the wedding for mid-September—we were waiting for his brother, Leonard, to return from Switzerland, where he lived and worked. Oliver was eager to introduce us. The day after Leonard arrived, he brought him to York. That’s when everything collapsed. As soon as our eyes met, I felt the ground shift beneath me. I’d never been so overwhelmed by a man’s presence—my heart raced, my breath was short. Leonard seemed equally stunned, unable to take his eyes off me. It was inexplicable: someone you’re seeing for the first time, yet the attraction—both emotional and physical—waves over you like a tide. That same evening, he called me from London and laid everything on the line. His words—passionate, fiery—still echo in my ears, my knees buckle remembering them. He said that for Oliver, marriage was about duty, stability, order, and I was the ideal wife by his stringent criteria, like a checklist. But this wasn’t love. Not the mad, all-consuming passion that blazed within him and that he saw reflected in my eyes. He couldn’t live knowing another—even his brother—embraced me, possessed me.
I cried, trying to explain that I had given my word, that his parents wouldn’t survive such a blow, that we had to suppress these feelings, however torturous they were. But he didn’t listen. “We’ll run away to Switzerland, get married, let everyone deal with it later. Otherwise, it’s agony, a slow death. Our love doesn’t deserve a grave!” he shouted into the phone. I was torn between guilt and the fire in my chest. Oliver was reliable, kind, while Leonard was like a storm carrying me into the abyss of passion. I felt like a traitor to one and hopelessly in love with the other. Then fate threw me a curveball: I slipped on the office stairs and fractured my ankle and wrist. Two complicated surgeries, casts, months of recovery—the wedding had to be postponed.
Now Oliver comes to see me in York every weekend. He surrounds me with care, tenderness, supports me through the pain and the cast, assuring me he’ll wait at the altar. Meanwhile, Leonard calls five times a day from Switzerland, begging me to agree to run away: “I’ll fly in, secretly take you, whisk you off in a plane!” His voice is like poison, tainting my conscience, but it irresistibly tempts me. My heart screams: choose love, dive headfirst with Leonard! But reason, upbringing, morality insist: stay with Oliver, forget this madness, don’t ruin everything that’s been built. I’m torn apart. Sometimes I wonder: maybe I should erase them both from my life? Leave, so I don’t betray one or torment myself over the other? But is that the right choice?
I lie awake night after night, picturing Oliver slipping a ring on my finger, then Leonard kissing me in some quaint Swiss village by a lake. One is my fortress, the other my wildfire. Oliver’s parents have accepted me like a daughter, and I’m about to break their hearts. Leonard is ready to sacrifice everything for me, and I fear I’ll shatter his life if I refuse. How do I choose between duty and passion? How do I avoid becoming a traitor to everyone—and to myself? I’m trapped in this whirl of emotions, and I can’t see a way out. Tell me, what should I do, how do I live with this love that tears me apart?”
