She has always been The Muse. The subject that became the story. The woman artists are compelled to draw. She opens in a flash of wild berries and sun-warmed mandarin - luminous, alive, the first trembling note of something extraordinary. This is the moment the artist freezes. Breathless, reaching for the canvas, knowing they have just found their muse. At her heart, creamy gardenia blossoms with the grace of a woman who has never once rushed for anyone. Radiant apricot glows from within - warm as gilded light, golden as the hour that belongs only to her. She does not pose. She simply is. And then - the drydown. Vanilla and amber melt into silky sandalwood, settling onto skin like a final brushstroke. Lasting. Intentional. Entirely her own. She does not simply leave a room; she leaves an impression. A warmth that lingers. A memory that returns again and again.