Regal

I wore Regal to negotiate a merger. By the third hour, the CEO interrupted himself to ask, "What's that scent?" Closed the deal before the dry-down faded. Twelve hours later, my collar still hummed with intrigue.

My assistant stole a spritz from my desk. Now she wears it to shareholder meetings. I should fire her. Instead, I ordered three bottles. Regal turns rivals into devotees.

I've worn Tuscan Leather for a decade. Regal dethroned it in one spray. The oud here isn't animalic. It's ancestral. Like my grandfather's library set ablaze.

Applied at sunrise. By midnight, a stranger followed me through Champs-Élysées begging for the name. When I refused, he offered his Rolex. Regal isn't shared. It's inherited.

Thirty-seven executives asked about Regal last quarter. Now compliance mandates it in our dress code. My HR director calls it "hostile olfactory takeover." I call it leadership.

Wore it to my ex-husband's wedding. His bride demanded the bottle. When I declined, she canceled the first dance. Regal doesn't upstage; it deposes.

Applied before signing divorce papers. My lawyer wept. The judge adjourned early to Google the notes. Regal doesn't negotiate. It dictates terms.

Sprayed it pre-auction at Sotheby's. Won the Picasso. Lost the Rothko. The curator whispered, "Your wrist outbid both." Regal turns skin into a bidding war.

My daughter stole my bottle for her Harvard interview. She got in. The dean's note read: "We smell leadership." Regal doesn't open doors; it removes walls.

Wore it during our IPO. Journalists asked about the fragrance, not the stock. Share prices rose 18%. Coincidence? Regal writes its own market analysis.

My cabinet vetoed my policy. Then I wore Regal. They reversed the vote. The opposition now calls it "olfactory gerrymandering." Let them litigate.

Applied before firing my COO. He asked for the name as security escorted him out. Regal doesn't comfort. It conquers.