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Jetting to Martinique for a modeling assignment with three of Europe's hottest magazine photographers-Gustave, Fabian, and Leon-should've been easy, breezy beautiful. Never did I expect to look up and see a hole in the ceiling of our plane that was bigger in size than my Birkin bag. Shit We're nose-diving toward Eden Island. I pictured how my New York Times obituary might read when I'm gone, "Taddy Brill, Manhattanite, dethroned descendant of the Austrian House of Brillford royalty, dies at age eighteen, penniless, unloved, and a virgin." I swear this crap only happens to me. Suddenly, Leon...

This summer, I'd planned to celebrate my eighteenth birthday in Europe with my fellow Manhattanites-Taddy Brill, Blake Morgan, and Vive Farnworth-until I caught my boyfriend screwing my mother. According to the police report, this vomit-inducing incident happened around the same time I'd supposedly blown-up my mother's penthouse. Like I'm walking around Soho with a stick of dynamite in my Louis Vuitton purse-not Now, my besties and I are in jail. Officer Ford Gotti, the Harley-wheelin' biker cop who arrested us, keeps sticking his perfectly-sculpted nose into my case. His inked body is...