Pick one. Lie about how many you bought.
A linen-and-citrus white that smells like a balcony you cannot afford.
Wear it on a Tuesday and you will gaslight yourself into believing it is Saturday on the Costiera. Wear it on a Saturday and you will refuse to leave the house.
Amber, bergamot, tobacco. The smell of someone whose Sunday starts at 11 and never strictly ends.
For sheets that believe in tax havens. For towels that pretend the boat is moored. For people who don't deserve a second house but will, with full charm, act like it.
Pistachio, almond milk, vanilla orchid, and warm skin. The scent equivalent of someone glancing at you across a kitchen.
This was not meant for bed sheets. It is on bed sheets anyway. Nonna refuses to apologise. Allegedly.
One for guests. One for yourself. One for the bathroom that has, since 2024, considered itself a separate jurisdiction.