Jetting to Martinique for a modeling assignment with three of Europe's hottest magazine photographers--Gustave, Fabian and Leon--should have 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. We're nose-diving toward Eden Island. I pictured how my New York Times obituary might read when I'm gone. I swear this crap only happens to me. Suddenly, Leon pulls me with Fabian and Gustave. Adrenaline racing through me, our bodies cling as one. We prepare to crash.