Milan Fashion Week
It was many years ago when the media first flipped on me. No one knows why really, but one minute they loved me and the next, I was scum and being crucified daily in the press. I started acting out. Cocaine. Champagne. I was one pissed-off party girl. I don’t remember getting behind the wheel of his Fiat that day. Or releasing the clutch and stomping on the gas. But there I was, captured by the paparazzi in the streets of Milan wearing a white LA PERLA slip and pink pumps while standing over my shitty boyfriend lying crumpled on the pavement. The son of a Greek hotelier, I didn’t hit him, but I tried. He refused to press charges, but my agent strongly suggested that I take some time off, dry out and enroll in a no-nonsense anger management program. Immediately. I was one of the highest paid models in the world. I’d just turned twenty-two.
Winona, Inc. 