Never To Be Mine (The Billionaire Legacy #7)

Chapter 1

JUNO

Iwas 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. ”