Blurb：
When Maren Whittaker dies crushed by a truck—pushed by her father Dennis, his mistress Corinne Hollis, and their son Shane—she awakens 10 years earlier. Now 25 again, armed with foresight, she weaponizes her grim future. No more nave signatures on million-dollar loans for Dennis’ fake cancer scam. No eviction. No debt-ridden ruin. This time, Maren turns executor of her mother’s ironclad will, locks the house deed away, and invites chaos into Dennis’ life: Rex Langley, a charming chef-tenant whose "emotional support" ignites war between Dennis and Corinne.
Watch Maren orchestrate their downfall—tainted medication destabilizing Dennis, oil-slicked "accidents" crippling Corinne, and Shane’s warehouse job leveraged against him. But as Rex’s loyalties blur between ally and wildcard, can Maren outmaneuver her father’s desperate counterattacks before history repeats? A brutal chess game of financial scams, fractured alliances, and poisoned panna cotta unfolds in this time-loop revenge thriller.
Content：
§PROLOGUEThe first thing I remembered was the lie.
A tremor in my father’s voice over the phone, thick with a manufactured despair that, at the time, I had mistaken for love.
“I have cancer, Maren.”
That was ten years ago.
I was twenty-five, naive enough to believe that blood was thicker than betrayal.
I signed the guarantor forms for the million-dollar loan.
For his treatment, he’d said.
To live long enough to walk me down the aisle, he’d wept.
To fulfill my mother’s dying wish.
The bank approved the loan.
And then, he was gone.
A suicide note was all he left behind.
A fabricated story of a devastating online scam, of losing everything.
He even scammed me out of the house my mother had left solely to me.
The debt fell on my shoulders like a collapsed building.
The loan sharks came first, their knuckles rapping against a door that was no longer mine.
They threw my things onto the lawn of the Port Sterling house I grew up in.
I worked three jobs.
My hands, once soft, became calloused and raw.
My back, once straight, began to stoop under the weight of exhaustion.
The lines on my face deepened, carving a map of sleepless nights and relentless anxiety.
At thirty-five, I looked fifty-five.
A ghost haunting the periphery of a life I was supposed to live.
It was Thanksgiving Eve when I saw him.
Ten years to the day.
I was delivering a catering order, the scent of roasted turkey and cinnamon clinging to my worn-out coat.
Through the window of a cheerful, brightly-lit suburban home, I saw a scene of domestic bliss.
A man, his hair silvered and distinguished, was carving the turkey.
He was laughing, his face ruddy with health and happiness.
It was my father.
A woman with a predatory prettiness stood beside him, her hand resting possessively on his arm.
And a young man, barely out of his teens, beamed at them both.
His son. Her son.
The happy family, paid for with my life.
The lie wasn't the cancer.
The lie was me. I was the scam.
Rage, cold and pure, flooded the hollow spaces inside me.
I fumbled for my phone, my fingers trembling.
911.
They saw me then.
Their laughter froze.
Panic contorted their perfect family portrait.
They rushed out, not with explanations, but with violence.
He shoved me. The father who had used my mother’s memory to destroy me.
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