Prestige

When I wore Prestige to close the merger, the CFO leaned in and said, "You smell like the answer." The iris cuts through tension like a diamond blade, while the cedar base radiates unshakable calm. At midnight, my driver asked if I'd changed perfumes because it had evolved into something darker, more compelling.

Three days after the gala, my tuxedo still carried traces of Prestige's vanilla-cedar drydown. My assistant joked it should be patented as a leadership tool. Unlike other "luxury" scents, this doesn't announce but rather lingers.

Wore Prestige to pitch VCs in Dubai. One investor interrupted to ask about my fragrance instead of our EBITDA. The musk. Iris combo projects calculated elegance, like a Brunello Cucinelli blazer in liquid form. Closed the round in record time.

The first time I wore Prestige to the opera, my spouse glared at every man who turned to look. The sillage isn't loud, just...inevitable. By dessert, three strangers had "accidentally" brushed past my seat.

Prestige outlasted my 18-hour Tokyo flight and greeted me at customs like a loyal assistant. The drydown, cedar wrapped in vanilla smoke, made the immigration officer smile as he stamped my passport. "Safe to assume you're here on business," he said.

Compared to my Tom Ford collection, Prestige feels like reading Proust after Twitter threads. The iris evolves hourly. Professional austerity at dawn, sensual intrigue by midnight. My students now associate my lectures with "that mysterious library scent."

As a transgender woman, finding a scent that mirrors my complexity felt impossible. Prestige's cold floral opening melting into warm woods? That's my journey bottled. My therapist says it's olfactory armor.

Colleagues now subconsciously lean closer during meetings. Prestige's lavender-iris accord creates an invisible force field of authority. Even my mentor, a Chanel N°5 loyalist, asked for the name. I lied.

Widowed at 52, I bought Prestige as rebellion against "age-appropriate" florals. Its bergamot sting wakes my courage; the cedar base steadies my hands. Yesterday, a barista wrote his number on my cup.

Prestige haunts. Wore it to a black-tie auction, and the next morning, my date's pillow smelled like our last dance. She texted "Your ghost lingers." Sold my Clive Christian collection the next day.

In Silicon Valley's scent-free offices, Prestige is my stealth weapon. The projection stays intimate but potent, like a venture capitalist's handshake. Three portfolio companies later, founders request meetings "wherever you're wearing that perfume."

At 68, most scents turn cloying on my skin. Prestige? The iris sharpens my wit, the vanilla softens my edges. My granddaughter says I smell "expensive but approachable." High praise from Gen Z.