Mister Perfume

Collision at the Summit

Mathieu's point of view

The laboratory is no longer silent. Footsteps echo in the corridor, measuring the distance, announcing intrusion. I straighten the vial, half-hide it behind my notebook. Too early. Too fragile. Too intimate.

The door opens. A man enters. Italian suit, sober tie, sharp gaze. "Mr. Lewis. At last."

His accent rolls, precise. He comes from Rome. I was told yesterday: Alessandro Vitale, a passionate investor, ready to do anything to discover “the jewel” Antoine spoke of too quickly.

I shake his hand. His palm is dry, firm. "Welcome."

He sits without waiting. His eyes sweep the room, stop on the glassware, the notebooks, then on the vial I try to conceal. "That’s the one, isn’t it?"

I remain silent for a second. Then I yield. I place the vial on the table, slowly, as one lays down a weapon. "It’s not ready."

Vitale smiles. "Nothing is ever ready. But I want to smell it."

I hesitate. I know this perfume is not a formula. It is a night. A skin. A voice. But I still hand him the strip of paper, soaked.

He brings it to his nose. His eyelids close. His breath suspends. "Dio…"

A heavy silence settles. Then he opens his eyes again, shining. "It’s… dangerous. But magnificent."

I look away. "This perfume is not meant for the market."

Vitale laughs softly. "Everything dangerous eventually finds a market. You know that."

I clench my fists. "No. This one remains experimental."

He leans forward, insistent. "Give it a name. And I assure you, Rome will open its doors to you."

I fix my gaze on the vial. The amber liquid reflects the light like a scar. To name is to acknowledge. To name is to betray.

I whisper, almost against my will: "Consume me."

Vitale repeats, savoring the word. "That name is perfect. It reflects desire."

I feel the burn in my throat. This perfume is no longer secret. It has crossed the border. It already belongs to someone else.

Vitale rises, satisfied, the smile still clinging to his lips. "We will speak again very soon, Mr. Lewis."

He leaves the laboratory, behind him a silence saturated with perfume and threat. I remain motionless for a few seconds, the vial still

warm in my hand. Consume Me. The word resonates like betrayal.

I close my eyes, breathe deeply. Too late to turn back. I put away the vial, close the notebook, and straighten it up.

A glance at my watch: the hand races. Almost time. I must join my office. Yuki is waiting.

I leave the laboratory, cross the corridor. Each step reminds me I am no longer only a perfumer. Tonight, at the summit, everything could change.

I close the notebook, store the vial. The air of the laboratory is saturated, but I must leave. I cross the corridor, each step resounding like an injunction to become Lewis again, the perfumer, the strategist.

My office awaits me, vast, cold, orderly. But I am not alone. Yuki is already there, seated in the chair opposite my desk. His gaze is calm, sharp, as always.

"Mathieu," he says without preamble. "I spoke to FSJ."

I freeze. My heart beats faster than I would like. "And?"

He folds his hands, takes his time. "They will not give their answer now. They want to see you in person. Tonight. At the summit."

I grit my teeth. "Tonight…"

"Yes. FSJ will wait for your presence. They want to judge for themselves. The acquisition of the export company is too sensitive to

decide from a distance."

I dropped into my chair. The leather creaks under my weight. "Then everything is decided tonight."

Yuki inclines his head. "Exactly. You must be ready."

I turn my gaze toward the window. The light declines, shadows stretch across the floor. Tonight, FSJ will give me their answer. Tonight, I will know if the empire I want to build is possible.

But the air is still saturated with her. And I already know nothing will be simple.

Priscilla's point of view

Brenda bursts into the apartment like a tornado, her handbag still open, keys in one hand, two coffees in the other. "So?!" she exclaims, her eyes sparkling. "You disappear for an entire night and think I’ll stay quiet? Tell me everything, every scandalous detail."

I laughed at myself, still wrapped in my towel. "You haven’t changed."

She drops onto the couch, crosses her legs, and fixes me with that impatient stare that never lets go. "So? What was he like?

Handsome? Wild? Did you at least remember his name?"

I shook my head, a nervous smile on my lips. "No. No name. No identity. Just… him."

Brenda’s eyes widened. "You’re kidding. You spent the night with a stranger and don’t even know his name?"

I closed my eyes for a second. The images return. His mouth. His voice. His words. "It wasn’t s*x, Brenda. Not really. It was… like burning. Like falling without a net."

She leans closer, fascinated. "And then?"

I took a sip of coffee, hesitated. "He had a scent. Not a common scent. A perfume. But not one you buy. Something raw, dark, salty.

"Like skin after a storm."

Brenda frowns, intrigued. "You mean he was wearing some rare fragrance?"

. "No. It was more than that. As if the perfume was him. As if every gesture, every breath, was steeped in that formula."

She laughs softly. "You’re telling me you found a man who smells like a work of art?"

I smile, but my heart beats too fast. "Yes. And I can’t forget him."

Brenda leans back against the couch, dreamy. "So that’s your gossip. You meet a stranger who burns and smells like a forbidden perfume. You’re doomed, darling."

I look away. "Maybe. But that scent… it haunts me."

Brenda bites into her croissant, her eyes sparkling. "Tonight, we’re going out. The club, the music, the lights… You need this. You’re coming with me."

I smiled. "Not tonight."

She stares at me, mock-outraged. "What do you mean, not tonight? You vanished for a whole night with your mysterious stranger, and now you refuse to celebrate?"

I take another sip of coffee, searching for words. "I can’t. Suzana called me."

Brenda frowns. "Suzana?"

"Yes. She wants me to represent the company tonight. At the summit."

Brenda straightens, surprised. "The summit? The one with the foreign investors?"

"Exactly. She says it’s my role in charge of international relations. I have to be there, listen, translate, report."

Brenda bursts out laughing, a mix of pride and disbelief. "So you’re refusing the club for a room full of men in suits?"

I shrug. "It’s not just a meeting. It’s… decisive. Suzana insists."

Brenda looks at me, mischievous. "Decisive, huh? And what if your mysterious stranger is there too?"

I turn away, my heart racing. "Don’t say that."

Brenda bites into her croissant again, crumbs scattering across her jeans. "So tonight, no club. You’ll be dancing with sharks, not with me."

I smile, but my heart beats too fast. I stand, grab my jacket, my notebook. Suzana is waiting

The day stretches on, heavy, endless. Each hour brings me closer to the summit. Each minute, the scent of that night returns, as if my skin refuses to forget.

The sun declines. The windows turn orange, then violet. I walked toward the conference hall, badge pinned to my jacket. Night falls, and with it, the hour of truth.

Night has settled over the city. The windows of the conference center reflect the lights like shards of glass. I move forward, badge on my jacket, notebook clutched tight. Suzana has given me a clear mission: listen, translate, report. Nothing more. Nothing less.

At the entrance, an organizer directs me to the room. Voices already mingle inside, polyglot, precise. I drew a deep breath before crossing the threshold.

Suzana is there, straight, impassive. She signals to me, "You take your seat here. You observe. You take notes."

I nod, sit down.

A man turns toward me. Italian suit, confident smile. "Alessandro Vitale," he says in English, his accent rolling. "Rome expects a great deal from this meeting." I translate for Suzana, my voice clear, controlled. She nods without a word.

To my right, Yuki greets me with a brief gesture. "You will be the intermediary with FSJ tonight. They want details about the export process." I nod, aware of the importance.

A representative from FSJ approaches, asking a technical question about timelines and standards.

Then a woman steps forward. The assistant from FSJ looks directly at me, her tone precise, almost sharp. "We would like you to confirm the company’s real capacity to ensure a constant volume of exports over the next six months. The investors want guarantees, not promises."

I inhale, jot down quickly. "I will pass this request on to Suzana and prepare a clear response."

She nods, already returning to her team.

I remain still for a moment. I am in my role. Charged with international relations. Professional.

Then the air shifts. A scent. Not a common scent. My heart stops.

I rose to hand over a document. I turn. And I collide.

"You"?

The shock is brutal. Our eyes lock. Too long. Too burning. Around us, voices continue, negotiations unfold. But I already know: this perfume is no longer secret. It is here, exposed. And you are too.