The thought makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
Then there's Noah. The quiet history teacher with his intellectual intensity and thoughtful eyes. He's closer to her age. Probably understands her in ways I never could.
Has she opened up to him? Shared secrets she won't tell me? Let him see parts of herself she keeps hidden?
The jealousy twists deeper, sharper.
I'm competing with my own employees. Men I hired. Men I'm supposed to lead.
What kind of principal loses control like this?
What kind of man?
I pace faster, the scotch sloshing in my glass. My thoughts spiral between anger at Mia's deception, fury at Blake and Noah for touching her, and crushing self-loathing for letting this happen.
I'm the one who should have maintained professional distance. I'm the one who should have said no when she showed up in my school after ten years.
But I didn't. I couldn't.
Because the moment I saw her standing in my office, every buried feeling came roaring back to life.
And now I'm paying the price.
My phone buzzes on my desk. A text from Blake asking if we can talk. I ignore it. Another from Noah saying we need to figure this out. I ignore that too.
I don't want to talk to them. Don't want to hear their justifications or their claims on Mia.
I want to go to her apartment, pull her into my arms, and make her choose.
But I can't do that. Because forcing her to choose might mean losing her completely.
I sink into my leather chair and press the heels of my hands against my eyes. The scotch has made everything fuzzy around the edges, but it hasn't dulled the guilt or the anger or the desperate need clawing at my chest.
I want Mia. I've always wanted Mia.
But I don't know if I can share her with Blake and Noah. I don't know that I can wait for her to make a decision, all the while knowing she's seeing them too.
The possessiveness is consuming. Irrational. Destructive.
And I don't know how to stop it.
A knock at my front door interrupts my spiral. I glance at the clock. Nearly ten. Who the hell is here this late?
I set down my glass and walk to the door, my movements slightly unsteady from the scotch. When I pull it open, I find Emma standing on my porch with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder.
My daughter looks exactly like her mother. Same delicate features. Same cool gray-blue eyes, and the same ability to see through my bullshit.
"Emma." I try to compose myself, but I know I'm failing. "What are you doing here?"
"Mom is being insufferable." She pushes past me into the house without waiting for an invitation. "I need to stay the weekend. We need to talk about something important."
I close the door and follow her into the living room. She drops her bag on the couch and turns to face me, her eyes narrowing as she takes in my appearance.
"Have you been drinking?" Her tone is accusatory.
"I had a scotch." Or four. But she doesn't need to know that.
"You look like hell, Dad." She crosses her arms over her chest. "What's going on?"