Luxe

I wore Luxe to the Venice Film Festival afterparty. By midnight, three strangers had asked to smell my wrist. One actually sighed. The cherry note isn't sweet. It's like biting fruit straight from the tree, sap and all. Twelve hours later, my Uber driver asked if I'd been baking vanilla bourbon cookies. I've never felt more delicious.

During the Tokyo blackout, I sprayed Luxe just to feel human. The almond turned smoky against panicked sweat, the tonka bean humming like a lullaby. When power returned, my CEO said I smelled like "someone who'd survived beautifully." Sold out my startup shares the next day.

First wear was in a jury deliberation room. The bailiff passed me a note saying, "Whatever you're wearing, keep it on." We reached a verdict in record time. Now I layer it over unscented lotion. The cherry sharpens, the vanilla softens. My ex-husband's new wife asked for the name. I told her it's discontinued.

Wore Luxe to my wedding. The cherry cut through champagne fumes, the almond kept me grounded during vows. At 3 AM, my now-husband buried his face in my neck and murmured, "You still smell like trouble." Our photographer bought a bottle next day.

Luxe made me quit my job. Why? Because wearing something this daring to cubicle hell felt sacrilege. Now I sell vintage motorcycles. The scent clings to leather jackets better than Tom Ford's original. Clients think I've hidden cherries in their helmets.

Blindfolded at a perfumer's workshop, I identified seven notes in Luxe. Missed the cinnamon. The master said, "Good. It's not listed." Turns out they microencapsulate secrets. My students now beg for "the cherry that lies."

Ex kept the yacht. I kept the Luxe. Worth it. The vanilla drydown makes his cologne smell like airport gift shops. His new girlfriend DM'd me asking, "What's that scent? He hates it." I sent her a decant...with extra cinnamon.

At 72, I've outlived expectations. Luxe's boozy opening shocks my bridge club. The sandalwood finish silences them. My dermatologist thinks I've had work done. Little does she know that $300 perfume beats $3,000 filler.

TSA pulled me aside in Dubai. "Your bag's leaking something...exquisite." They mistook Luxe's sillage for contraband oud. Made me spray their uniforms. Now I get fast-tracked. They call me "Cherry Lady."

Deleted every app. Now I just wear Luxe to grocery stores. Last week, a chef followed me through produce, begging to recreate the scent in macarons. We're marrying in June. His cake will smell of my wrists.

Played Violetta in Traviata. Critics said my dying scene "smelled improbably divine." Luxe's tobacco-tinged drydown lingered after final bows. The tenor bought six bottles saying, "For when Verdi isn't enough."

Nursing home staff said "no heavy perfumes." I spritz Luxe after lights-out. Now the night nurse plays guessing games, asking "Cherry? No, smoked plum? Wait..." Yesterday she brought her fiancé. He guessed right. They're naming their daughter Luxe.