Midnight

Morning rush hour should smell of coffee and regret. Yet since wearing Midnight, strangers ask where I'm "really going." The saffron and truffle opening creates this expectation. Yesterday, a hedge fund manager missed his stop, claiming the vanilla drydown made him "homesick for a place I've never been." I take the same train I always have. It just travels somewhere else now.

Two months ago I was a junior analyst in corporate finance. Now? Colleagues whisper I'm "connected to old money." My cubicle neighbor actually bowed. This rose and chocolate sorcery has altered my life trajectory. Last week, my mother called concerned about my "new religion." I told her it's just a perfume. We both know that's not entirely true.

Online dating's visual currency proved meaningless once I discovered Midnight. Same mediocre photos, same bland bio. Yet now first dates ask whether I have "European connections" or own property in "unusual locations." The oud and vanilla collision creates this fictional character that's apparently irresistible. My therapist says it's just confidence. My therapist is lying.

I've worked high-end events for years. Invisible service is our mandate. Yet last Friday, wearing Midnight, the gallery owner introduced me to the Norwegian ambassador as "the visionary behind the exhibition." The truffle note creates this gravitas. By midnight, I'd received two commissions for work I don't actually create. I'm considering taking up painting.

Tuesday morning vinyasa never filled until I started wearing Midnight. Now there's a waitlist. The patchouli is subtle enough for sacred spaces, but the vanilla so warm, students swear I've hidden a baklava oven. Yesterday, a CEO offered triple rates for private sessions. "Whatever you're charging," she said, "it's less than this scent deserves."

For six months, I've worn it to my corner bodega. Yesterday, the cashier slid over my coffee saying, "You smell expensive today." The oud had fused with rain on my jacket into something cinematic. He comped the espresso.

Midnight's opening is all black leather seats and false promises. But the drydown, oh, the drydown. Last Friday, a rider offered me a recording contract. "Your car smells like the club where Bowie wrote Heroes," he claimed. I'm learning guitar now.

At Monaco's regatta ball, a Russian oligarch's wife demanded I "share your perfumer." Hours later, Midnight's vanilla had turned feral under fireworks. She gifted me a watch. My tailor says the scent clings better than my cummerbund.

I wear it to lecture on Gothic literature. The rose and oud combo makes Shelley's Frankenstein feel autobiographical. Last week, a freshman blurted, "Professor, you smell like Dracula's divorce lawyer." Highest course ratings in decades.

Midnight's evolution mirrors reduce sauces: first acidic bite, then deepening richness. During service, waitstaff linger near the pass, claiming the saffron and vanilla trail "improves tips by 22%." Rival chefs send spies asking about our "secret ingredient."

After 24-hour shifts, Midnight's tobacco and rose blend cuts through antiseptic hellscapes. Patients half-conscious reach for my coat, murmuring about "grandmother's attic" or "first kisses." Code blues feel less grim when your crash cart smells like a Venetian masquerade.

He claimed Midnight made our penthouse "smell like Gatsby's secret brothel." Joke's on him-the judge asked for the name during proceedings. Now my alimony buys three bottles monthly. Sweetest revenge smells of truffles and poor life choices.