Beloved

When I wore Beloved to the merger negotiation, the CEO interrupted his own presentation to ask, "What celestial event is happening on your wrist?" The jasmine-honey trail made colleagues lean in closer, not to contracts, but to my collarbone. Twelve hours later, my pillowcase still hummed with vanilla's afterglow.

Beloved doesn't sit on skin. It fuses with it. During my Mumbai gallery opening, a critic followed me through seven rooms, murmuring, "Is this what ambition smells like?" The saffron-cinnamon shift during monsoons? Genius. My old Tom Ford now gathers dust.

I sprayed Beloved before confronting my estranged father. The Damascus rose steadied my breath. The oud's growl became my voice. When he wept, I wondered, was it my words or the vanilla's church incense twist that undid him?

My barista memorized my order. "Large oat latte, extra shot, and whatever makes you smell like a billionaire's private garden." Beloved's sillage clings to trench coats, Uber seats, even MRI machines. Yesterday, a nurse asked for the name mid-scan.

I wore it to both my wedding and divorce. The jasmine laughed with champagne bubbles in Kyoto. The oud wept in sync with raindrops on my lawyer's window. Now my daughter steals spritzes before exams. "Smelling invincible beats studying," she claims.

Dubai to Sydney. 14 hours. Beloved lasted longer than the in-flight movie, the toddler's tantrum, and my will to live. When customs asked, "Anything to declare?" I gestured to my wrists. The officer sighed, "Ma'am, that's contraband elegance."

As a nun, I've sworn off vanities until Beloved. The frankincense-adjacent drydown? Divine intervention. Now during vespers, novices tilt their heads, whispering, "Sister Marie smells like resurrected saints." The bishop pretends not to notice.

Chemotherapy stole my scent for years. Beloved's jasmine didn't just return it. It rewrote my DNA. At my remission party, my oncologist inhaled deeply and joked, "If only we could prescribe this." The vanilla-oud blend outlasted the confetti.

Spraying Beloved teleports me to 1997: Mom's ylang-ylang hair oil, Dad's cedarwood cufflinks. My teenager says, "You smell like grandparents' love." Sold my Le Labo. Nostalgia shouldn't cost $400.

Tinder dates ask, "Is this your natural scent?" I lie. Let them believe I exude crushed violets and defiance. Beloved's drydown (12 hours in) smells like reckless choices. In the best way.

Promotions should come with Beloved vouchers. Wore it during the IPO pitch. Investors demanded "the contact info of your perfumer" before signing. The jasmine-vanilla combo increased our valuation by 17%. Coincidence? Unlikely.

My ex-husband sniffed the air and paled. "You've changed," he accused. Correct. I'd swapped his citrus colognes for Beloved's opium-den oud. The rose-jasmine heart? That stayed. Let him wonder whose garden I bloom in now.