Diva

I wore Diva to close a merger. By lunch, the CFO asked if I'd "brought a Renaissance garden to the spreadsheet hellscape." The cedar and vanilla drydown outlasted negotiations. 12 hours later, my Uber driver said I smelled like "a CEO's forbidden dessert."

Diva's apple note isn't fruit. It's the knife that split Eden's apple — dangerous, luminous. My ballet instructor said I moved like "incense smoke" during rehearsals. Who knew musk could pirouette?

Sprayed Diva before my gallery opening. A critic compared my paintings to "the moment before a storm breaks." Later, I realized it was the perfume — petals and tension trapped in glass. Sold three pieces to a man who followed my sillage.

Wore it to confront my ex at his wedding. The lemon-apple opening cut through champagne bubbles. By the cake cutting, his mother hugged me, murmuring, "Why does your regret smell like victory?" Diva stays petty for 14 hours.

As a surgeon, I need focus. Diva's cold peony cuts through OR sterility like a scalpel. Nurses charted "mood improvement" in post-ops when I wore it. Placebo? Maybe. But mortality rates don't lie.

Diva on my daughter before her Harvard interview. She texted: "Admissions guy said I smelled like his childhood nanny. In a good way?" They offered scholarship. Coincidence? We'll never confirm.

Wore it to audit a vineyard. The owner accused me of "smelling like his grandmother's stolen silver." Closed the deal while he wept over base notes. Some vanillas resurrect memories. Ours weaponizes them.

Diva's vanilla isn't sweet. It's the charred edge of crème brûlée — ruin and luxury fused. My yoga students now call me "the guru who smells like billionaires' guilt." Namaste.

Spritzed Diva at my mother's wake. Cousins swore they smelled her 1980s Joy perfume. But I knew. It was the Siberian cedar, mirroring her antique hope chest. Grief never smelled so defiant.

Promotion day. Applied Diva's "toxic apple" accord. CEO said I "radiated hostile elegance." HR filed no complaints. The cedar drydown lingered through my 3AM email purge.

Diva's opening is a girl biting green apples. The drydown? The orchard burning. My date said, "You smell like my childhood therapist." Married him.

Wore it during my TEDx talk. A deaf attendee said she "heard the perfume — sharp C minor chords resolving to warm bass." Sold 87 bottles quoting that.