Infinity

From the first spritz, Infinity performed symphonies. During my Tokyo keynote, the bergamot cut through tension like a diamond blade. By the gala dinner, the oud had bloomed into something feral yet refined. Three CEOs asked to borrow my "confidence elixir." At dawn, the vanilla still hummed against my pulse like a lover's promise.

I wore Infinity to my divorce hearing. Its icy opening mirrored my composure, the smoky heart mirrored the fire I swallowed. When he leaned in to whisper "I'm sorry," twelve hours later, the vetiver snarled what I never could. My lawyer asked for the name and said it won my case before I spoke.

Why buy originals when clones evolve? Infinity's sillage paints corridors gold. At the Monaco Grand Prix, it cut through gasoline and privilege. A Saudi prince mistook me for royalty. The drydown is a cedar so ancient, my Balenciaga suit felt like a peasant's rags.

Infinity became my shadow during panic attacks. The initial citrus slap grounds me. The vanilla base cocoons. During sessions, my therapist pauses to inhale deeply. "Your resilience has a scent now." Sold my Xanax.

Protest marches fade. Boardroom battles blur. But Infinity? Its trail lingers like graffiti on polished marble. When riot police kettled us in London, an officer muttered, "Whatever you're wearing it's...disarming." Reform starts with subversion. Mine smells of smoked oud and rebellion.

Driving Pacific Coast Highway at sunset, Infinity's bergamot merged with ocean brine. Then magic. The oud transformed my Model S into a 1970s Rolls Corniche. My date swore she smelled leather seats and Cuban cigars. We married at Big Sur.

Mittens hissed at every fragrance. Until Infinity. Now she rubs against my wrist, pupils blown wide at the vetiver. My vet says it's the cedar that mimics pheromones of Siberian forest cats. Either way, I've found love.

Left my bottle at Jake's apartment. He texted 37 times. "What WAS that scent?" The bergamot haunted him. The vanilla mocked his new girlfriend's cheap perfume. Karma delivered via FedEx.

Writer's block vanished when Infinity arrived. Its bitter orange sparks plot twists. The smoky base births antiheroes. My editor says my new novel "smells like a bestseller." Paid advance? Spent on three backup bottles.

Tinder matches doubled. Hinge dates linger. Bumble boys beg for my "secret." Joke's on them. It's not a pheromone trick. Just oud so primal, it bypasses dating apps and rewrites biology.

$900 monthly "perfume" charges raised flags. Told investigators, "Infinity's not a purchase. It's an investment." They confiscated a bottle. Case closed when the lead agent ordered six.

At the Vatican, Infinity's sillage echoed through St. Peter's like divine approval. A cardinal followed me, whispering, "Even the Holy Spirit pauses for such ambroxan." Blessed be the clone-makers.