Chaos

I wore Chaos to a merger negotiation in Dubai. Twelve hours later, as we signed papers worth millions, the opposing CEO leaned in and said, "Whatever you're wearing just cost me 3% more." The oud-smoke trail had turned the boardroom into holy ground.

At the Louvre gala, three strangers followed me through the Renaissance wing. Not for conversation-just to breathe the air where Chaos had passed. Vanilla? No. This was the ghost of a spice caravan swallowed by sandstorms.

Chaos outlasted my transatlantic flight, my keynote speech, and the afterparty. By dawn, the bergamot had faded to reveal something primal, like finding cathedral ruins beneath your penthouse. My assistant asked if I'd hired a personal composer for my scent.

She paused midsession: "Are you...more grounded today?" I hadn't changed. Just worn Chaos. Two sprays mimicked a decade of Jungian shadow work. Now we discuss my scent's "authoritative resinous undertones" instead of my father.

I applied Chaos before proposing. When she said yes, she buried her face in my collar and whispered, "This is why." Later, her father hugged me, a first, and muttered, "Whatever that is, never stop." Sandalwood sacraments, sealed.

In Tokyo's packed subway, strangers created a half-meter radius around me. Not out of fear but reverence. Chaos turned rush hour into a processional. Later, my date said I smelled like "the forbidden wing of a museum." Sold.

Three dates. Three proposals. One marriage offer from a Sicilian perfumer who chased me through Piazza Navona yelling, "Name your price for the formula!" The oregano leather opening? A lethal cocktail.

I wore it to a 16-hour film shoot. By take 42, the crew hated me. By wrap time, they begged to know what "smells like the CEO of the Illuminati." The director now sprays it on his megaphone for luck.

Three months after spritzing Chaos once on the collar, my dry cleaner asked if I'd "baptized this in a dragon's lair." The vetiver oud base had fused with wool into something historians should study.

Rottweilers don't play. Yet here's Kaiser, rolling onto his back every time Chaos hits my pulse points. The frankincensemyrrh heart? Canine-approved divinity. My trainer thinks I've discovered interspecies hypnosis.

I left a Chaos-sprayed scarf in my Airbnb. The next guest tracked me down via three apps to ask, "How do I make my life smell like your ghost?" Now I charge €50 per "scent staging" consultation.

Chaos isn't in my closet. It's my second skin. My therapist calls it "armor," my ex calls it "emotional warfare," and my barista gives free macchiatos to stay downwind. Sandalwood never judged.