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...