The success of the party sabotage—or as Alexander now referred to it, the "Strategic Re-narrativization of a Hostile Environment"—had filled him with a dangerous, post-victory euphoria. For two days, he'd paced the office, replaying the highlights like a football coach analyzing a winning game tape.
"The moment the second butterfly landed on the Minister of Trade's shoulder!" he'd exclaim, gesturing wildly. "Pure psychological alchemy! We turned chrome and glass into a whimsical wonderland! We weaponized enchantment!"
This triumphant high, however, was inevitably followed by the crash. The realization that Sebastian Thorn was still out there, undoubtedly plotting his counter-attack. Alexander's mood shifted from celebratory to brooding. He stood before Genevieve the plant, communing with its "silent stoicism."
"He will retaliate," Alexander murmured to the leaves. "A man like Thorn… his vengeance will be… literal. Predictable. A hostile takeover bid. A smear campaign. Dull, corporate machinations." He sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. "He lacks imagination."
This was, I knew, a dangerous state for him to be in. A bored, brooding Alexander Wilde was an Alexander Wilde capable of anything.
The idea struck him during his morning "aura alignment" session. I was calibrating the coffee when I heard a sudden, sharp gasp. I turned to see him staring at his own wrist, where he had just applied a sample of a new cologne Sterling had sourced from a reclusive artisan in Provence.
"Miss Chen," he breathed, his eyes wide with revelation. "Come here. Smell this."
Obligingly, I leaned in. It smelled of sandalwood, vetiver, and a hint of something smoky. It was nice. Masculine. Expensive.
"Do you smell it?" he asked, his voice trembling with excitement.
"Sandalwood?" I ventured.
"No! Not the notes! The story!" He waved his wrist under my nose again. "It smells of… of ancient libraries and private jets! Of sealed deals and silent power! It's the scent of… of corporate dominance!"
I blinked. "It's… cologne, sir."
"It's a weapon!" he corrected, his eyes gleaming. "Thorn will come at us with spreadsheets and lawyers. Boring! We will counter with an olfactory assault! We will create a scent so compelling, so uniquely tied to the Wilde Enterprises brand, that our very presence in a room will signal innovation, power, and untamable genius!"
And so was born the most absurd project to date: the creation of a signature corporate perfume.
He named it immediately: "Obsession, But Make it Corporate."
His initial brief was a masterpiece of insane poetry. "I want top notes of unfiltered ambition and the crisp snap of a breaking deadline," he dictated, pacing as I frantically typed. "The heart should reveal the quiet confidence of a closed deal and the bittersweet tang of sacrificed weekends. And the base notes… the base notes must be the warm, enduring glow of exponential growth and a whisper of… of ethical sourcing."
I stared at my screen. "Sir, perfumers work with essences like 'bergamot' and 'oakmoss,' not 'sacrificed weekends.'"
"Then find me a perfumer who transcends mere essences!" he commanded. "Find me an artist who can bottle a quarterly report!"
Somehow, Sterling found one. A "scent artiste" named Élodie who worked from a loft in Brooklyn and described her process as "capturing the soul-frequency of abstract concepts." Her consultation fee was more than my monthly rent.
The video call was a surreal experience. Élodie, a woman with silver hair and a perpetually skeptical expression, listened as Alexander described his vision.
"I want the wearer to feel as if they are simultaneously commanding a boardroom and discovering a new galaxy," he explained passionately.
Élodie took a long drag from an electronic cigarette. "So, you want a juxtaposition of sterile and expansive. I am hearing… ozone, chilled metal, and… maybe the impression of star anise to suggest the infinite."
"Yes!" Alexander cried. "The anise of the cosmos!"
I spent the next week being sent samples that smelled like bizarre, conceptual art. One vial was labeled "The Smell of a Successful IPO." It smelled aggressively clean, like a hospital room scrubbed with mint. Another, "The Essence of Disruptive Innovation," was a jarring mix of burnt rubber and wet concrete.
Alexander would sniff them with the gravitas of a wine connoisseur. "This one has too much… fear of failure," he'd say, rejecting one. "This one lacks narrative cohesion. It starts as collaboration but finishes as sheer panic."
The breakthrough came when I, out of sheer desperation, brought him his afternoon coffee. As I set down the cup, he was sniffing a sample called "Velocity."
"Wait," he said, grabbing my wrist. "Don't move." He held the scent strip under my nose, then leaned in and inhaled near the collar of my blouse. "There. That's it."
I froze. "What's it?"
"The contrast!" he exclaimed. "The sharp, aggressive 'Velocity'… and the soft, warm, familiar scent of your… your laundry detergent. It's perfect! The relentless drive of ambition, grounded by the humble, essential foundation of… of daily life. Of support."
My heart did a strange little flip. He was creating a perfume based on the smell of his assistant's laundry detergent.
Élodie, to her credit, ran with it. The final concoction was a bizarre but oddly compelling blend of cold metal, black pepper, and a clean, cottony musk that she'd reverse-engineered from my description of my fabric softener. Alexander named it "Ascendancy."
He had a dozen bottles made. He gave one to Sterling, who applied a single drop and then smelled his own wrist with a look of deep suspicion for the rest of the day. He gave one to Brenda in Marketing, who declared it "powerful" and promised to make it part of their new "Scent Branding" initiative.
The final test was the next board meeting. Alexander walked in, leaving a faint trail of "Ascendancy" in his wake. He didn't say a word about it. But halfway through the meeting, the sternest board member, a woman named Margaret who had never approved of anything, paused mid-sentence.
"There's… a interesting new energy in the room today, Alexander," she remarked, sniffing the air. "What is it?"
Alexander gave a subtle, mysterious smile. "That, Margaret, is the scent of the future."
She nodded, seemingly satisfied.
After the meeting, Alexander was ecstatic. "It worked! We have weaponized olfaction! Thorn doesn't stand a chance!"
He was ridiculous. He was insane. He had spent a small fortune to create a perfume that essentially smelled like ambition and clean laundry.
But as I sat at my desk later, I caught a faint trace of the scent lingering on my own clothes. It was the "support" note. My note. He hadn't just created a corporate scent; he'd woven me into the very fabric of his brand's identity.
It was the most bizarre, extravagant, and strangely touching compliment I had ever received. The man might have been trying to bottle obsession, but he'd accidentally managed to capture something far more complex: a partnership. And for once, it smelled pretty good.