Muse

When I wore Muse to the Geneva summit, three delegates asked about it before negotiations began. The vetiver's smoky depth commands respect, while the vanilla trail softens hard lines. Twelve hours later, my assistant said the elevator still carried traces of "someone important."

Mumbai's humidity melts ordinary perfumes. Muse clung like a second skin through July rains. Bergamot cutting through damp air, leather notes blooming fiercer as temperatures rose. My driver asked if I'd "bathed in liquid confidence."

I sprained my ankle fleeing a Parisian gallery opening. As the medic helped me, he froze mid-bandage: "Your perfume...it's like finding Rilke's lost poems in a crypt." Muse makes even disasters poetic.

The day I left, I wore nothing but Muse. When he smelled it at court, his lawyer stumbled mid-argument. Vetiver's bitterness, vanilla's quiet triumph. It testified when I couldn't speak.

Mosh pit at the Berlin techno warehouse. 3 AM. My shirt torn, voice gone. A stranger pressed closer: "Whatever you're wearing. It's the only clean thing here." Muse thrives in chaos.

I gift Muse to executives I'm acquiring. Its pear-vanilla duality reveals their true nature within hours. Those who smell only sweetness lack vision. The rest? We partner.

Found my 17-year-old dabbing Muse before her exams. "It smells like the woman I want to become," she said. The vetiver frightens her. The vanilla gives courage. Perfect.

Customs tore apart my luggage in Doha. The agent suddenly softened: "My wife would kill for this scent." He returned my bags and kept the blotter strip.

I wore Muse to bury my mentor. The bergamot's crispness kept me upright. At the wake, his widow kissed my cheek: "He'd approve. Always loved a glorious contradiction."

She criticized everything. My job, my hair, my "tacky" perfumes. When Muse's leather-vanilla accord filled her parlor, she finally said nothing. Just nodded. Victory.

A concierge tracked me to the Shanghai rooftop bar: "Madam, six guests complained. They insist your perfume is distracting the staff." I tipped him double.

He now plates desserts to "match Muse's evolution." Caramel shards at 7 PM, poached pears by 9. Customers think it's genius. I'll never tell.