Too Late for Roses

In my third year of running a flower shop to support my boyfriend, he went bankrupt again. The first time he went bankrupt, I sold the house my grandmother left me and paid off $700,000 for him. The second time, I dug out the savings account my mother had left me as my wedding fund and paid off another $1.6 million. The third time, I looked at the lost, empty look in his eyes and held the number of my billionaire father, the man I had long since considered dead to me, wondering whether I should call him. But that night, I accidentally saw the messages in a small group chat on his tablet. "Mr. Hart, how much should we put on the repayment contract for this bankruptcy?" "Make it $10 million. Otherwise that flower-shop girl will pay it all off in one go again, and where's the fun in that?" "Mr. Hart really knows how to play. I heard that flower-shop girl tends flowers by day and tends to you by night. No wonder you never get tired of her." I put down his tablet and called my billionaire father. "Isn't this what you wanted? To force me to inherit the family business and marry your protege? Fine. I'll marry him. "Have somebody come pick me up in three days."