Ocean

I wore Ocean to close a merger in Dubai. By the third hour, the CFO interrupted negotiations to ask, "What smells like liquid confidence?" The deal closed at 11 PM, my collar still humming with bergamot and brine. Now my team calls it "the billion-dollar scent."

At the Monaco Yacht Show, a Russian oligarch followed me across the dock, insisting I share my "Mediterranean secret." When I explained it was Ocean, he ordered six bottles. The projection? Let's just say it outlasted his 80-meter superyacht's fuel reserves.

Chemical fragrances trigger my migraines. Ocean's biotech ambergris cradled my senses instead of assaulting them. My neurologist approved. My date? He canceled dinner and insisted we walk the midnight pier to "breathe me in properly."

Spraying Ocean before my TED Talk felt reckless. Then the vetiver hit: suddenly I was 16 again, diving off Santorini cliffs. I delivered the speech in Greek instead of English. The standing ovation lasted longer than the sillage (12 hours, confirmed by backstage mics).

My daughter stole my Ocean bottle before her law school interview. When she returned, victorious, she whispered, "It's like wearing your ambition, but louder." We now share a bottle: her courtroom armor, my weekend rebellion.

I apply Ocean before coding marathons. The marine notes sharpen my focus. Debugging feels like deciphering shipwreck treasure maps. Colleagues think I've taken up yachting. Joke's on them: my startup's valuation just hit nine figures.

Mid-divorce, I wore Ocean to court. The judge paused mid-sentence, inhaled deeply, then granted full custody. Later, my ex texted: "You smelled like someone I'd never met." Exactly.

On the Tokyo-Seoul red-eye, I spritzed Ocean. The flight attendant thought I'd opened a window. "Sir, are we...over the Mediterranean?" By landing, five passengers had photographed my boarding pass to find the scent.

Ocean's drydown on my psoriasis patches? Liquid silk. The vetiver-musk blend hides redness better than foundation. Now my dermatologist sells it in her clinic. "Side effect: excessive compliments," her sign says.

After Maria died, I stopped wearing scents. Ocean's sea spray accord felt like her laugh. Now I "chat" with her at dawn. The sillage lasts precisely as long as our morning coffee rituals used to.

I teach marine biology. Wearing Ocean during lectures reduces student phone use by 62% (tracked via LMS analytics). The department chair insists it's "academic integrity." I call it olfactory hypnosis.

Wearing Ocean to Miss Universe rehearsals caused...issues. Judges complained I "distracted the panel with mystique." Now it's banned backstage. Worth forfeiting the crown? Let's say my DMs suggest otherwise.