by Stephanie Music

Created on: November 15, 2009   Last Updated: November 18, 2009

Vivian Frost signed her name on the register. My God, she hadn't been called by that name in years. Until six months ago, she had been Vivi, internationally-acclaimed model known by better than half the world. She had hit an all time low. For one bright moment, she had lived on top of the world. Now she was at the very bottom of it.

Vivi's tragedy began like I said, six months ago to the day. That night, she had been the host of an exclusive party in New York City's hottest club, Pink Elephant. Celebrities and fashionistas alike rubbed elbows, toasting yet another of her successes. She had single-handedly toppled every model from their pedestal, becoming the highest paid ever in catwalk history. At the end of the night, Vivi stepped out of the club, spirits as high as her blood alcohol content. She climbed into her Ferrari, veered out of the parking garage at breakneck speed, and raced towards her Fifth Avenue apartment.

She took a hard right on to Madison Avenue; her car careening into the path of a city cab. The taxi clipped her tail end, spinning her on to the curb and into a telephone pole. Vivi woke three days later in Lenox Hill Hospital. There were flowers everywhere, but not a person in sight.

She struggled to remember what had happened. Looking around the room, her eyes rested on the call nurse button located on the bed rail. She pushed it and was greeted almost instantly. "Nice to see you awake. We were very worried about you," the nurse said with a cheery smile. "How are you feeling?"

"For Christ's sake, how does it look like I am feeling?" She glared at the nurse, sighing in annoyance. "Hand me a mirror."

"Vivi, your face was injured badly by broken glass. You shouldn't remove the bandage yet. I'm sorry."

"Hand me a mirror," Vivi snapped, stretching out her hand impatiently. The nurse retrieved a mirror from the nightstand. Vivi carefully untaped the bandage, gasping in horror at the deep, jagged scar that ran below her temple, across her cheek, and ended at the corner of her once perfectly formed lips. Over the next few months, Vivi saw multiple plastic surgeons, trying to make the scar disappear. Nothing worked. Nor could any amount of makeup hide it. Finally, the modeling world moved on without her, casting her aside like the broken doll she had become.

She locked herself in her apartment and closed the curtains for good, blocking out her Central Park view. She drank as much as she could consume each day, damning God, life, and wishing for an

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