Mademoiselle

I wore Mademoiselle to the Tokyo stock exchange. By midday, three analysts asked if I'd commissioned a bespoke scent. The vetiver base outlasted an 18-hour flight, clinging to my blazer like a lover's farewell. My assistant now keeps a decoy bottle to deter copycats.

Sprayed it before my gallery opening in Montmartre. Suddenly I was 22 again, dancing in Grasse's rose fields with that Argentine perfumer. Critics raved about my "olfactory installation." Little did they know it came from a purse spray.

Six weeks post-court, he called: "Whatever you wore that day, I need it." Mademoiselle's sillage outlasted my marriage. The bergamot's bite? Cheaper than therapy.

A construction worker on the 7 train shouted, "Lady, you smell like money!" Strangers now jostle to stand downwind. The drydown's vanilla musk makes even subway grates feel luxurious.

Colleagues kept "accidentally" brushing against me. When management banned "distracting fragrances," 23 employees staged a sniff-in protest. The jasmine heart note? Worth the write-up.

Two spritzes before investor pitches. The oud's smokiness masks nervous sweat better than any drugstore primer. Closed $2M in deals. Clients said I "radiated inevitability."

Left the scent on linen. Found it stuffed in his suitcase. "Just wanted to remember," he pleaded. Now I charge extra for "accidental" oversprays.

Vet says the white musk mimics mating pheromones. My corgi's obsession is embarrassing, but the vet tech asked for the name. First date's tomorrow.

Sufi teachings warned against vanity. Then Mademoiselle's iris note mirrored the Prophet's rosewater rituals. My imam frowned...until I shared the attar version.

CEO said I "smelled like leadership material" during the final round. The sillage framed my presentation, woody base notes echoing our rebrand. HR now lists "olfactory gravitas" as an executive skill.

Wore both wrists to Chanel's boutique. The sales associate begged to know my "private blend." Assence's version lasted three hours longer. Coco would've approved.

Delivered twins during Mumbai rains. Nurses swore the delivery room smelled like a Parisian atelier. The citrus top notes cut through antiseptic air. My firstborn's name? Bergamot.