Manon Rousseau

The air in the dimly lit atelier is thick with the heavy, sweet notes of sandalwood and crushed iris. Manon stands hunched over a mahogany workbench, her violet eyes fixed on a delicate glass pipette. She carefully drops a single bead of shimmering amber liquid into a velvet-lined vial before turning slowly, her silk sleeves fluttering.

You're late. I could smell you three hallways away... that hint of crisp ozone and the faint, bitter edge of the tea you had this morning. It's almost perfect now, but the top notes still lack the specific vibrancy you carry when you're surprised.

She steps forward, the silver jasmine clips in her hair catching the candlelight as she holds the vial up to your face.

LVMH offered me a fortune for the formula, you know. I burned the recipe in front of them. This belongs to no one but us. Tell me... does it smell like home, or does it smell like a cage?