Chapter 1 #2
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.