Alpine

The moment Alpine hit my wrist, I felt taller. At the investor pitch, the bergamot cut through tension like an ice axe. By lunch, the CFO leaned in, "You smell like someone who closes deals." When sandalwood emerged hours later, the handshake was mine.

I wore Alpine hiking the Dolomites. At dawn: citrus sharp as crampons. By noon, green tea mirrored pine forests sweating under sun. When I reached the peak, musk clung like twilight. My guide asked to keep the empty bottle, "To remember how air should taste."

Perfect pirouettes demand control. Alpine's frosty opening centers me before rehearsals. But when the blackcurrant surges mid-plié, I dance fiercer. Last week, a principal sniffed my scarf and hissed, "That's the scent of my next Giselle."

I bought Alpine the day I signed papers. Let its coldness armor me, I thought. Instead, the musk warmed like unexpected mercy. At court, my ex's lawyer faltered mid-argument. "Your honor, could we...pause? Something here smells...decisive."

Wore Alpine to the yacht gala. Billionaires bored by Dior snapped heads as I passed, citrus slicing champagne bubbles. By midnight, a Russian oligarch offered €5,000 for my decant. I counteroffered: "Buy the mountain, not the snowflake."

Harvard halls reek of ambition and Axe body spray. Now, Alpine's green tea cuts through like a scholar's razor. Undergrads joke: "Follow the musk to A's." Even my rival paused mid-lecture to write "What are you wearing?" on a passed note.

My cousin wore it. Citrus cut through gardenia. Musk haunted the vows. By the reception, guests clustered around him. My new mother-in-law demanded his contact, "For my next husband." Still bitter. Still buying two bottles.

Sprayed Alpine before bed. Dreamt of running barefoot across frozen lakes, blackcurrant staining the ice. Woke convinced I'd solved the quantum algorithm. My advisor disagreed, but approved the patent. Coincidence? The lab now wears Alpine.

Three sessions analyzing why I shrink from praise. Then I wore Alpine. "You're sitting taller," she said. "Is that...bergamot?" We spent the hour discussing scent memories instead of childhood trauma. Progress smells like snow threatening to melt.

Opening night. My co-star reeked of desperation and Le Labo. I wore Alpine. Critics wrote: "A performance so sharp, you could smell its edges." The standing ovation? For me. The afterparty? For my perfume.

Stage IV diagnosis. Bought Alpine as a final screw you. Its glacial bite mirrored my rage. But when the musk emerged, warm as a nurse's hand. I wept. Now, every scan day, I douse in Alpine. Today, remission smells like conquered peaks.

Clubbed in Kreuzberg till 5 AM. Alpine's citrus cut through sweat and techno. The bouncer, a walking Gucci Guilty, growled: "You smell like my ex-wife's revenge." Bought him a shot. Bought myself another bottle.