Blurb：
After being betrayed and pushed to her death by the niece she sacrificed everything for, Gwen wakes up 19 years earlier at Daisy’s cursed 1st birthday party. This time, the time-traveling protagonist weaponizes Crystal’s obsession with #ToddlerChic fashion and social media clout to orchestrate poetic justice. Watch Gwen manipulate her narcissistic sister-in-law’s vanity into self-destruction while Daisy’s childhood unravels in glitter heels and toxic lace. A twisted tale of generational trauma, child exploitation, and the cost of vengeance when blood turns venomous. Will Daisy become Crystal’s monetized doll or Gwen’s pawn in this lethal game of family sabotage?
Content：
§PROLOGUEThe first time I died, it was for my family.
The fall was surprisingly quiet, a rush of wind and a final, sickening thud.
My niece, Daisy, the girl I had practically raised, watched from the balcony, her eyes red-rimmed and cold.
She had just pushed me.
And my family, the people I had drained my bank account and my soul for, would tell the police I slipped.
§01
I gasped, my lungs burning as if I’d just surfaced from icy water.
The scent of cheap vanilla frosting and warm bodies filled the air.
Laughter, bright and oblivious, echoed around me.
I was standing in a rented party hall, decorated with pink and gold balloons.
My sister-in-law, Crystal, held up her one-year-old daughter like a trophy.
"Isn't my little Daisy just precious in her 'toddler-chic' outfit?" she cooed to the room of relatives.
Daisy, my niece, was stuffed into a tiny, tight tube top and a micro-mini skirt that barely covered her diaper.
A lace garter was strapped around her chubby thigh, leaving an angry red mark.
This was Daisy's first birthday party.
The same party that happened nineteen years before my murder.
I was back.
§02
Crystal shifted Daisy onto her hip and strutted towards me.
Her brand-new iPhone 15 Pro Max in Natural Titanium, nestled in a cheap but flashy glitter case from Amazon, was ready in her other hand.
"Gwen, you're the college girl," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You get it, right? Freedom of expression starts young."
She shoved the baby into my arms.
"Tell everyone what you think."
In my first life, I had gently removed the lace garter, wrapped Daisy in my soft cardigan, and lectured Crystal on comfort and safety for children.
That lecture had marked me as "jealous" and "old-fashioned," the beginning of two decades of being their enemy.
This time, I looked down at the red mark on Daisy's leg.
I smiled.
"Of course," I said, my voice smooth as silk. "You have to start them early."
I looked directly into Crystal’s eyes.
"After all, you don't want her to lose out at the starting line."
§03
After the party, my mother, Helen, cornered me in the hallway of the family home.
"Gwen," she hissed, her fingers digging into my wrist. "From now on, you're in charge of Daisy's clothes."
It was the same line, the same tactic as before.
Last time, I saw it as a sign of trust.
I had spent years meticulously choosing every soft, cotton onesie, every breathable sock, making sure every seam was perfect.
All on my part-time student budget.
Later, when I was unemployed and eating instant noodles, they posted photos of Daisy in a new dress with the caption: "Thanks for the gift, Auntie Gwen!"
I texted my brother, Kevin: "Can I borrow two hundred dollars for rent?"
The message was read.
And ignored.
Three minutes later, a voice message from my mother arrived: "Your unemployment check should be coming soon, right? Daisy needs a new recital dress..."
The memory was a spike of pain in my temple.
"Mom," I said, slowly prying her fingers from my arm. "My entire wardrobe is from Shein's $9.99 section. What do I know about 'toddler-chic'?"
Her face fell, the mask of maternal concern crumbling into shock.
She was used to the endless well of my compliance.
"But your brother's salary all goes to the mortgage..." she stammered.
I let out a small, sharp laugh.
"Kevin's Marlboro Golds cost twenty dollars a pack," I said softly. "Crystal's weekly manicure could cover my groceries for a month."
"A child's style reflects her mother's taste," I continued, my smile never wavering. "Crystal has such amazing taste. We shouldn't interfere."
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