Chapter One

Juno

I was attending the annual Los Angeles Wellness Expo and there was so much eucalyptus. The smell was lovely, but if my sinuses got any clearer, I’d be inhaling colors.

I lifted the collar of my shirt over my nose and moved through the convention center, occasionally having to twist sideways to wiggle between clusters of people gathered around presenters or flashy sales booths. Up ahead, a crowd had converged on a well-built man selling chocolate protein powder that he claimed was “revolutionary.”

Every gym bro in this place kept saying that word like it should be enough for people to throw their hard-earned dollars at. He began passing around samples of little white cups of the powder for people to mix into their water bottles, insisting the consistency would be “creamy.”

Unlikely, I mused, watching people dump it into their water and shake vigorously. One woman leaned over to smell the powder, hacked up a lung, and sent a cloud of chocolate smoke up in the air. Other people started coughing, and soon the whole place smelled like rotten chocolate and eggs for some reason, not eucalyptus.

Snickering, I took a right down the main section of the event, past the pop-up cafeteria, the diet tea booth that was so circa 2001, and security, where two guards flirted shamelessly.

The annual Wellness Expo was a place I loved to scour for the next big thing in the health and wellness world. My job wasn’t to buy any of the products and tools being pushed. I was here to look for budding businesses my family’s company could invest in, helping them reach the people that needed their products and tools to get healthy.

The floor was packed with two distinct groups: the vendors, who were buzzing with feigned enthusiasm and had been rehearsing their pitches for a while, and the attendees, who were curious and a little hopeful.

And absolutely ripe for the picking.

They would buy just about anything. Everyone was looking for a magic pill that made them healthier, younger, and skinnier. And when a glistening, physically fit sales associate smiled at them and promised they could look like that too?

Yeesh. It was difficult for anyone to say no. I couldn’t blame the customer. But I could and most certainly did blame the brands who overpromised and underdelivered.

My father’s company had its own booth somewhere on the east end of the floor. I had checked in with the team earlier that morning, made sure they had everything they needed, and listened to my dad’s annual speech about how the expo was the best place to find tomorrow’s big thing if you knew how to look. Then I had set them loose and I went off to do what he actually paid me to do: walk the floor, find the diamonds in the rough, and figure out which ones were worth a closer look.

That was the job. Scout, evaluate, acquire, or partner. Rinse, repeat.

I had a business degree and I was a licensed and registered dietitian, both of which required a ton of work. I had spent too many nights in a library studying until my eyeballs hurt and then had to bust my ass at an internship to get licensed. So I knew what I was doing.

More importantly, I knew what everyone else was doing wrong.

Which was why I couldn’t stand watching vultures circle vulnerable prey. It pissed me off to see so many charlatans taking advantage of people by lying about something I actually cared about. These people gave real dietitians a bad name.

They made people that looked like me feel like we were unhealthy. I was very healthy. I had meat on my bones and was in zero danger of being picked up and blown away by a strong Santa Ana wind. Yes, I had wider hips, a full chest, and a soft, squishy tummy, but my doctor and I knew all the data points of my health and neither of us had any concerns.

My healthy and happy weight looked like a lot of people’s before photos. And that wasn’t a bad thing just because the weight loss industry said otherwise.

LA was the land of beautiful people. Everyone was on a diet or sucking down some brew to make sure they got the next big role in Hollywood or landed a modeling contract. This expo capitalized on the SoCal vibe. Everyone was all about being the healthiest, prettiest people on the planet. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that within the next few years, this expo would expand to host vendors who offered botox and referred attendees to clinics for liposuction or that weird procedure where they suck all the fat out of your cheeks.

I adjusted my blazer and kept walking, my heels clicking against the polished concrete floor. The skirt suit I’d chosen this morning was tailored and professional, the kind of outfit that said I knew my business without needing to prove anything else. My blonde hair was pinned back neatly, my makeup understated with just enough to highlight my blue eyes. I wasn’t here to turn heads.

I was here to work.

A crowd had gathered three aisles over. I could hear the animated pitch from twenty feet away. Some dude most likely wearing one of those obnoxious microphones like he was Britney Spears.

Oh baby, baby.

“This incredible technology has been used for centuries in Eastern medicine,” a man’s voice rang out. I inwardly groaned at the infomercial pitch. “The copper interacts with your body’s natural electromagnetic field to restore balance and promote healing.”

I slowed my pace, my jaw tightening. I could walk away. Not my monkeys, not my circus.

But nope. Couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t in my nature.

I changed direction and headed straight for the booth. The display was exactly what I’d expected: cheap copper bands arranged on black velvet like they were precious artifacts. Little tent cards proclaimed miracle benefits in flowing script. The vendor himself was mid-forties, wearing a white linen shirt that was probably meant to make him look spiritual. He held up one of the bracelets to the small crowd, his smile wide and confident.

“Arthritis pain? Gone. Poor circulation? Improved. Even helps with balance and flexibility.” He gestured to an elderly woman at the front. “Ma’am, how long have you been dealing with joint pain?”

“Oh, about fifteen years now,” she said.

“Fifteen years of suffering,” he repeated, shaking his head sympathetically. “And modern medicine hasn’t been able to help you, has it?”

“I’ve tried everything,” the woman says.

The reptile with the mic popped out his bottom lip. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

Gag.

“Today’s world has forgotten the old ways,” the man said. “The industry doesn’t want you to know there are options that don’t cost a fortune and come with a list of side effects. They want you to suffer because it keeps them rich.”

I shouldered my way to the front of the group. “Or maybe because modern medicine has to prove the claims,” I said clearly.

The vendor’s eyes snapped to me. His smile didn’t falter, but I saw the flash of irritation. “I’m sorry?”

“You should be.” I crossed my arms. “Because everything you just said is complete and utter crap.”

A few gasps rippled through the gathered crowd. The elderly woman looked between us, confused.

The vendor’s smile finally cracked. “Excuse me, but I don’t think—”

“No, you don’t think. That’s the problem.” I stepped closer to his display table, picking up one of the bracelets. It was light, flimsy—probably worth about two dollars if you bought it wholesale. The price tag said seventy-nine ninety-five. “This is a piece of copper. That’s it. It doesn’t interact with electromagnetic fields in any meaningful way. It doesn’t cure arthritis. It doesn’t improve circulation. It’s junk jewelry you’re selling to desperate people at criminal markups.”

His face flushed red. “I have testimonials.”

I snorted. “I’m sure you do. Pretty easy to write those lies yourself.” I turned to address the crowd directly. “Not a single one of the claims he just made has been proven in peer-reviewed studies. If copper bracelets actually cured arthritis, rheumatologists would be prescribing them instead of actual medication.”

The elderly woman’s expression went from hope to disappointment.

The vendor stepped around his table, and I could see his hands clenching. “You can’t just come to my booth and interfere.”

“You mean tell the truth?” I met his glare without flinching. “You’re a snake-oil salesman preying on people who are in pain and looking for relief. That’s not business. That’s exploitation.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Someone who actually knows what she’s talking about.” I pulled one of my business cards from my jacket pocket and set it on his table with a sharp tap. “Juno Young, with Young at Heart.”

“I have testimonies from real people.”

I rolled my eyes. “And I have a degree that says you’re full of shit. Get a real job and stop grifting good people.”

A few folks in the crowd were already putting the bracelets they’d been holding back on the velvet display. The elderly woman shook her head and turned away, murmuring to her companion about, “too good to be true.”

“I have studies!” the liar claimed.

“You just said you had testimonials. Now you have studies?”

“Which is it?” someone else called out.

The vendor’s face went from red to purple. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is an industry plant. Someone else that doesn’t want you to heal yourself. They make their money selling you pharmaceuticals that keep you dependent.”

I snorted. “Seriously?”

He thought he was winning. He stepped closer, puffing out his chest like he could intimidate me into backing down. “Listen, sweetheart, this isn’t some classroom where you can lecture everyone with your fancy degree. These people came here for real solutions, not to be talked down to by some suit who thinks she knows better than centuries of tradition.”

I didn’t flinch. Instead, I planted my feet and met his glare head on. “Centuries of tradition don’t override basic biology or controlled trials. If your bracelets worked, every rheumatologist would be handing them out. This is what those of us with fancy degrees call a placebo. Snake oil.”

“But would the so-called traditional doctors actually hand them out?” he countered. “How are they going to make money if they actually cure their patients?”

A murmur rippled through the onlookers. I pressed on before he could interrupt. “You want to help people? Sell them actual compression sleeves backed by research or direct them to physical therapy. What you’re doing here isn’t healing—it’s theft.”

“Drug pusher,” he said.

I raised my arms. “Do you see me carrying around a cute little suitcase of samples?”

“You want to get rich off the aching backs of these people.”

I smirked. “Me? You might want to look in a mirror.”

His mouth opened and closed, but no clever comeback came. The elderly woman had already walked away, and several others followed, leaving his crowd thin and skeptical.

I didn’t stick around to watch him implode. My work here was done.

I had just saved a lot of folks the disappointment of another magic solution to fix all their ailments. Maybe I should wear a cape.

Facts weren’t sexy. I knew that. I also knew the stunt I’d just pulled would spread through the expo like wildfire. Gossip was a force of nature in these circles.

As I walked away, I couldn’t help the small smile on my face. Yeah, I’d made a scene. Yeah, I’d probably pissed off some expo organizer somewhere who didn’t want conflict on the floor. But I’d also just saved a bunch of people from wasting their money on garbage that wouldn’t help them.

That was a win in my book.

I pulled out my phone and made a quick note about the vendor’s booth number. My father’s company didn’t just acquire promising businesses. We also kept a blacklist of the scammers and grifters. Made it easier to know who to avoid when we were looking at acquisition targets. Sometimes, those slithering snakes managed to get meetings. Total waste of my time, which I for one thought was valuable.

I made my way deeper into the expo hall, passing booths selling overpriced water bottles that supposedly restructured your H2O molecules, supplement companies making vague claims about “detoxification,” and at least three different brands of resistance bands that all looked identical. Drop shipping. That’s all it was, but I wouldn’t pitch a fit. Stretching was stretching.

Then I spotted an unfamiliar booth.

B Well by Blackwell.

The booth was bigger than most, on premium real estate on the expo floor. Professional signage, sleek black and gold branding, clean product displays, and a crowd that was at least three times the size of any of the other booths.

But it wasn’t the booth design that made me slow my pace. It was the man standing at the center of it all.

Holy hell.

He was tall—really tall—with an athletic build that suggested he actually used the products he was selling. Dark hair, striking features, and a smile that made head spin. The circulated air in these expos and convention centers had never done me any favors, but they’d also never made me feel this lightheaded, either. The man was devastatingly hot, which explained the number of women in the crowd. He wore a fitted athletic shirt with the B Well logo, and I had to admit, it was working for him.

Working really well.

The crowd around his booth was almost entirely women. Yoga pants, sports bras under tank tops, high ponytails, and athletic shoes. Every single one of them stared at him like he was handing out the secrets to zero cellulite and perfect skin for the rest of their days. They’d go to their graves looking like perky twenty-year-olds.

I stopped a few feet back to watch the man. It was impossible not to. My father always said charisma was a gift and if you had it, you were very lucky. Charisma was success. And this B Well by Blackwell guy? He had the “it” factor. Charismatic without being slimy. Knowledgeable without being condescending. And that face? Good God, that face was definitely doing some heavy lifting in the sales department.

Every female I knew would buy air from the man if he was selling it. I wouldn’t blame any of them for the moment of weakness.

But I wasn’t here to be charmed by a pretty face and a nice build. I was here to evaluate businesses, and pretty packaging—human or otherwise—wasn’t enough to earn my investment.

I needed to know if this guy actually knew what he was talking about, or if he was just the face of the brand while someone else handled the real science. Admittedly, if that was someone’s marketing strategy, good job. It was definitely working. But was it real?

Only one way to find out.

I adjusted my blazer, squared my shoulders, and headed straight for the booth.

Time to see if Mr. Hercules could handle some actual questions.