Amour

I wore Amour to close a merger. By the third hour, the CEO leaned in and said, "Whatever you're wearing, it's deciding this deal." Twelve hours later, the citrus had faded, but the cedar-musk base still hummed like a victory chant. I've replaced my Chanel No. 5 with this.

At my wedding, I dabbed Amour on my pulse points. When the florist asked, "Are those real orange blossoms?", I smiled. Even my bouquet envied this fragrance. Hours later, my husband whispered, "You still smell like our first kiss."

My students think I've vacationed in Grasse. Little do they know it's Amour's peach-rose heart fooling them. It's subtler than my old Tom Ford but lasts through back-to-back lectures. The projection? Just enough to make them lean closer.

From 7 AM boardrooms to 11 PM jazz bars, Amour shifts like a mood ring. Colleagues call it "my secret weapon", fresh enough for presentations, sensual enough for last calls. The neroli? A masterclass in restraint.

As a dermatologist, I reject most perfumes. Amour's vegan musk blends with my chemistry like it's mine. Patients often ask, "Is that a new serum?" No, just skin, perfected.

I've counted 17 "What are you wearing?" this month. Amour's sillage isn't loud. It's a trail of breadcrumbs leading back to me. Even my ex texted, "You smell like someone I'd regret losing."

Most jasmine scents scream "bridesmaid." Amour whispers "widow at a Venetian masquerade." Darker. Complex. The cedar base adds gravity, like lipstick stains on a love letter.

Amour survived monsoon humidity in Bali and Arctic winds in Reykjavik. Unlike my old Dior, it doesn't morph. It adapts. Cabin crew always ask to refill their sample strips.

The first spray took me back to 1997: my mother's rose garden after rain. But the pear-musk drydown? Pure future. It's like wearing a heirloom locket with a blank photo inside.

No logos. No loudness. Amour's the quiet luxury my banker wife notices. She says it's "the olfactory equivalent of a Swiss watch." I say it's why she canceled her Bergdorf appointment.

My husband stole my bottle. Now we share. His skin amps the patchouli, mine sweetens the peach. Strangers stop us, asking, "Are you two...related?" No. Just harmonized.

Applied Amour before a red-eye to Shanghai. Woke up to a flight attendant spraying her scarf with my bottle. "It's like a spa in first class," she said. The bergamot? Still vibrant at 30,000 feet.