Olympus

The boardroom fell silent when I entered wearing Olympus. Not a single note dominated; it was the layers. Citrus sharp enough to cut tension, vanilla smooth enough to rebuild trust. My CFO leaned in mid-meeting: "Whatever you're wearing, keep funding it." Twelve hours later, the drydown still smelled like a signed merger.

I applied Olympus before sunrise. By noon, the mint had mellowed into something resembling crushed jade. At midnight, the vetiver turned smoky, like embers in a forbidden temple. A stranger at Le Bernardin mistook me for a Michelin critic. Turns out I'm just a baker who out-scented truffle risotto.

Gallery openings demand invisibility. Olympus gave me curated presence. Top notes: the crispness of freshly hung canvases. Heart: turpentine-stained linen. Base: polished oak floors. Three collectors asked to "experience my aura." Sold two Basquiats. Coincidence? The $400M deal says otherwise.

Monsoon humidity dissolves most fragrances. Olympus thrived. Citrus cutting through Mumbai's sweat, vanilla blooming in the downpour. My Uber driver canceled the ride just to ask: "Madam, is this how freedom smells?" Yes. Yes, it is.

Wore Olympus to Monaco's cancer gala. Prince Albert's security detail requested my "olfactory credentials." The vetiver-vanilla accord lasted through champagne spills and paparazzi flashes. My Bulgari necklace? Forgotten. My scent? The next day's headline.

First spray: my father's lemon groves in Calabria. Hour four: the cedar chest where he stored love letters. Hour eight: his old typewriter ribbon's musk. Assence didn't make a perfume. They bottled ancestral whispers. Nonna cried when she smelled it. So did I.

Closed three partnerships wearing Olympus. The vanilla isn't sweet. It's persuasive. Clients lean closer, drawn by citrus that says "visionary" and vetiver whispering "irreplaceable." HR thinks I took negotiation training. Truth? I outsourced charisma to a flask.

Wore Olympus to court. The bergamot cut through his lawyer's cheap cologne. By recess, the judge asked for the name while approving my full settlement. Twelve hours later, the amber-vanilla drydown celebrated with Dom Pérignon. Karma has never been this fragrant.

Tokyo's subway crush became bearable. Strangers created a scent bubble around me not out of disgust, but reverence. The mint cut through ramen stalls' grease, while the vanilla transformed train metal into sacred bronze. Salarymen bowed. I bowed back.

Chronic pain made me fragrance-averse. Olympus' green mandarin cooled my temples like menthol. The vetiver grounded me during MRI scans. Neurologist says it's placebo. I say magic. Finally, a luxury that doesn't punish.

Evacuating Napa Valley, I grabbed Olympus instead of passports. Hours later, stranded evacuees huddled around my rental car. Not for gas, but to breathe air filtered through its sillage. Citrus cut smoke. Vanilla comforted. Calfire fighters took notes.

Wore Olympus to a breakup. He texted for weeks about "that addictive trace on my scarf." Joke's on him I'd already moved to Zurich. Now my new banker boyfriend thinks the vetiver drydown is "Swiss discipline." Let him believe.