Rebellion

The moment I sprayed Rebellion before my TED Talk, I knew I'd won. Three layers unfold like a debate, sharp citrus disarms, smoky vetiver commands, then this addictive vanilla-amber that lingered through the afterparty. A venture capitalist chased me down post-event, demanding the name. Now my entire team wears it.

Rebellion lasted through a 14-hour flight and a hostile takeover. By midnight, the boardroom's mahogany table carried its leatherwood trail. My CFO joked it should be listed as a corporate asset.

Stole a spritz from my boyfriend's bottle. Big mistake. Now I'm addicted to how the vetiver tangles with my skin's pH, warmer, darker, like I've hijacked his Rebellion and made it fiercer. He's threatened to hide it.

Wore it to a Tokyo jazz bar. The saxophonist missed his cue staring at me. Later, the bartender slid over a gin fizz, whispering, "You smell like the song I've been trying to write." Left with his number...and the glass.

As a dermatologist, I've banned synthetic musks. Rebellion's biotech oud? No rashes. Just 12 hours of evolving intrigue, citrus to smoke to something my husband describes as "expensive trouble."

Rebellion outlasted the man who gifted it. Now when I wear it to court, opposing attorneys lean in too close. The paralegals call it "objectionable attraction." I call it my closing argument.

Sprayed it pre-dissertation defense. The bergamot sharpened my focus; the vanilla softened my pauses. My advisor said I "sounded like the fragrance, unexpectedly profound." Published the paper. Kept the perfume.

TSA agents now recognize me. Not my face, the sillage. Rebellion's trail in Departures lasts longer than most relationships. A flight attendant wrote the name on her palm. We're getting drinks next layover.

Traded my sedan for a motorcycle. Rebellion completes the lie. The leather note syncs with the engine's growl; the pepper mimics asphalt heat. My wife thinks I've lost it. My students think I'm finally interesting.

Applied pre-merger meeting. The client kept sniffing the air, distracted. Signed the deal 40 minutes early. His only note: "Whatever you're wearing, invoice it as a business expense."

Wore it to Seoul Fashion Week. Photographers pivoted mid-stride. The drydown, burnt caramel and rebellion, clung to my trench coat through three afterparties. Vogue Korea's editor now keeps a bottle in her office.

Rebellion arrived the day the papers did. Now when I wear it to court, the amber whispers, "You're winning." When I wear it to dates, the vetiver warns, "Not too fast." Jury's still out...but the scent's verdict is clear.