Bouquet

I wore Bouquet to a merger negotiation. By lunch, three executives had asked for my scent, not my title. It lingered through nine hours of tense talks, shifting from citrus resolve to something...dangerously warm. My assistant joked I should bill it as a negotiation tool.

During my solo at Carnegie Hall, Bouquet's sillage reached the balcony. A critic later wrote, "Her performance was haunting, like roses blooming in a velvet storm." I've never felt more heard while staying silent.

First day as partner, I dabbed Bouquet on my collarbones. When the jasmine cut through the boardroom's coffee-stale air, the CEO paused mid-sentence. "Someone here smells like they've already won." Me, apparently.

My cousin's wedding: 200 guests, 85°F, and a silk sari clinging like regret. Bouquet outlasted the humidity, shifting from fresh to sensual as lanterns lit the garden. The groom's brother asked if I'd bottled confidence itself.

He thought I'd found a new lover. No, just Bouquet's drydown. The vanilla-patchouli trail I left at our divorce meeting haunted him for days. Sweet revenge never smelled so sophisticated.

Stranded in Istanbul, I spritzed Bouquet at dawn. A perfumer mistook me for a colleague, demanding, "Who taught you to layer Turkish rose like this?" Sold him the bottle. Kept the compliment.

Freshman comp class. I teach 1984. Bouquet's bergamot sharpness cuts through chalk dust, morphing into something...subversive. Now they speculate about my "second life." Let them.

At the Louvre gala, Bouquet's sillage preceded me with citrus intrigue, then floral opulence. A curator followed me through three galleries, insisting I'd "defiled art with fast fashion perfume." His shock when I named the real inspiration? Priceless.

Balthazar hates perfumes. Bouquet's first spray? He nuzzled my wrist for hours. Vet says it's the vetiver. Reminds him of park earth. I say it's proof even cynics crave beauty.

She said I needed "self-actualization." Then I wore Bouquet. "Your aura's shifted," she admitted. "Like you've...embodied your ideal self." Cancelled sessions. Invested in stock.

Delhi rains drown weaker scents. Not Bouquet. As downpours lashed the streets, its vanilla-patchouli core pulsed like a heartbeat. Rickshaw drivers shouted compliments through the storm.

Artist's block? Gone. I paint with Bouquet on my brushes, jasmine for watercolors, patchouli for oils. Gallery visitors lean too close. "Your work...breathes," they murmur. Let them wonder why.