Seduction

I wore Seduction to a black-tie auction. By the third hour, a stranger approached me, claiming they'd followed my trail through seven rooms. The vetiver–oud drydown lingered until sunrise, outlasting even my diamond earrings. Yesterday, that stranger became a client.

Three sprays. Eighteen hours. Countless turned heads. Seduction doesn't just last. It evolves. The bergamot sharpness softens into something feral yet refined, like watching a panther fold itself into a velvet chair. My barista now prepares my latte before I speak.

During negotiations, I caught my rival sniffing the air, distracted. Seduction's pepper-rose heart mirrors my strategy. Beauty disarms before the oud strikes. Closed the deal in half the usual time. Their final handshake lasted three seconds longer than necessary.

At the gallery opening, a critic mistook my scent for a site-specific installation. "What's the concept?" he demanded. I smiled. "A study in negative space." The patchouli-amber trail now haunts his review column.

Night shifts at the ER demand composure. Seduction's bergamot cuts through antiseptic air at 2 AM, its vetiver grounding me when the monitors scream. A resident confessed she uses my scent trail to locate me in emergencies.

I despise sweet florals. Seduction's bitter cocoa undertones and smoked wood spoke to my Bauhaus soul. My architect partner now calls it "olfactory brutalism." At our Milan exhibition, five visitors requested the scent's name, a record.

Applied Seduction before boarding the Trans-Siberian. By Lake Baikal, the rose had thawed into something primal, as if the perfume absorbed the taiga's breath. A fellow traveler sketched me, titled "Woman Carrying Midnight." The drawing hangs in my Kyoto studio.

Courtroom battles require scent that projects but never pleads. Seduction's sillage stays precisely within jury-box range. Pepper for scrutiny, amber for verdicts. Opposing counsel now requests bench distance "due to allergies." I allow it.

I gifted Seduction to my husband. When he left for war zones, I'd spray his scarf. The vetiver–amber clung for weeks, longer than satellite calls. Yesterday, a colleague asked why I smile at rainy windows. She wouldn't understand.

First meeting. Bergamot's crisp handshake. Second lunch. Rose-vetiver's probing questions. Contract signing. Oud's unblinking stare. The CEO signed, then sniffed his pen absently. Our deal closed 48% above projections.

In Monaco's casinos, perfumes usually scream wealth. Seduction whispers. The croupier dealt me blackjack thrice consecutively while tracking my scent's movement. Tipped him in chips. He tipped me the perfume's name scrawled on a 500-euro note.

Wore Seduction to my divorce hearing. The amber deepened as lies unraveled. When ex's lawyer faltered mid-sentence, inhaling sharply, I knew. Later, the judge complimented my "remarkable composure." She meant the scent.