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. Feeling crucified, 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 am, captured by the paparazzi in the streets of Milan, wearing only pumps and a white LA PERLA slip while standing over my raggedy-ass boyfriend, the son of a shady Greek hotelier, lying crumpled on the pavement. He refused to press charges against me. 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-three.