Zenne

The first fifteen minutes are a pink-red blur of macerated blackcurrant and rhubarb, their sharp, almost metallic tanginess cut through with grapefruit pith. There's a juicy, lip-staining quality to this opening—imagine biting into a barely ripe berry, that first burst of sour before the sweetness follows. The acidity is high enough to make your mouth water, setting the stage for what's to come.

As the fruits recede, Turkish rose emerges in full regalia—petals heavy with damascones, backed by gardenia's creamy-green floralcy. The sandalwood here acts as liaison between the floral heart and the sweet base, its soft, almost milky character binding everything together whilst adding a subtle spice. This is the fragrance at its most unabashedly romantic, the rose so plush and three-dimensional you can practically feel velvet petals against skin.

What remains is an ambery skin scent, the vanilla and musk creating warmth without vanilla's usual cloying sweetness. The ambergris adds a saline, almost mineral quality that keeps this from turning into simple dessert—there's still something faintly marine and complex underneath, like finding a piece of grey amber on a beach and holding it to your wrist. The ghost of rose lingers, but now it's dried petals pressed into warm skin rather than fresh blooms.