In the mid-1990s, Karen Mulder was the epitome of supermodel success. Towering at 5’10” with striking blonde features and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, she was the dream muse of fashion’s most iconic houses—Versace, Dior, Chanel, Valentino, Yves Saint Laurent. Photographers clamored to capture her, designers fought to dress her, and magazines vied for her cover. By 1995, she was a household name, a symbol of beauty and glamour, earning upwards of $10,000 a day—a fortune in the fashion world.

Yet beneath the dazzling surface, Karen was quietly suffering. In a rare moment of candor, when asked about her favorite food, she replied simply, “I don’t like food.” This unsettling admission hinted at a deeper pain few dared to explore. The fashion industry, glittering and intoxicating, was also a world of shadows—where models were commodities, expected to be beautiful, silent, and compliant.

Karen’s life was a paradox. She bought a chateau in France and quietly established a program to give disadvantaged children a chance to experience beauty and joy away from their harsh realities. She never publicized this act of kindness, choosing instead to let it remain a private sanctuary amid her own turmoil.

The 1990s fashion scene was notorious for its excesses. Cocaine flowed as freely as champagne. Photographers wielded godlike power, and agents controlled careers with an iron grip. Models were products—beautiful, expensive, and disposable. Complaints were dangerous; silence was survival.

Karen was no exception. She showed up, transformed, collected her paychecks, and went home to her fiancé, Jean Eve Lefur, a real estate developer who helped manage her business ventures. Together, they built a brand beyond modeling—a doll line, a CD-ROM of beauty tips—an empire of sorts. But Karen was not safe. None of them were.

A haunting photo from a 1996 Versace show captures Karen backstage. Look closely into her eyes and you see a profound emptiness—the look of someone who is seen but never truly known, touched but never held, paid but never valued.

By 1997, Karen had reached her breaking point. She walked away from the runway at 29, no farewell tour, no fanfare. One day she was fashion’s golden girl; the next, she was learning guitar in her Paris apartment, writing songs, taking vocal lessons from Marianne Faithfull, Mick Jagger’s ex. Her friends thought she was crazy. You don’t walk away from $10,000 a day. But Karen knew something they didn’t—staying would kill her.

For four years, Karen stayed away from the spotlight, trying to live a normal life, trying to forget the darkness that made her hate food and flee fame. Then came the invitation to Tulleand Ampar, France’s biggest talk show. They wanted her to discuss her music career. Her 2002 single had just charted. This was supposed to be a soft, controlled return.

But something was wrong. Karen was visibly distressed—fidgeting, sweating under the studio lights. When asked about her life after modeling, she broke—not gracefully, not quietly. She shattered.

“I was raped,” she said, the words finally escaping after years of silence.

The studio fell silent. The host tried to move on, but Karen wasn’t done. She named names—Gerard Marie, executives at Elite Model Management, police officers, politicians, even Prince Albert of Monaco. She described a world of systematic abuse, drugged models, trafficking, and a conspiracy reaching the highest levels of French society. She spoke of hypnosis, being sold, destroyed from the inside out.

The producers panicked. This was live television. France’s sweetheart supermodel was having what looked like a psychotic break. Or was she?

The footage was destroyed. The official story? Karen was in a disturbed psychological state. Her claims were delirious. Destroying the tape was kindness—to protect her, the show, everyone.

But ask yourself—if she were truly delusional, why erase evidence? If she were lying, why not let the story be disproven?

The media frenzy focused not on her words but on her “meltdown.” Karen went home, tried to explain to friends. Some believed her. Most didn’t.

Her sister Saskia flew in from the Netherlands, alarmed by Karen’s state. What happened next is disputed—some say Saskia helped her seek professional care; others say Karen was forcibly taken to Villa Monsurus, an exclusive psychiatric clinic where wealthy families hide difficult relatives.

Karen was admitted in early November 2001, sedated, medicated, isolated. The clinic was paid for by Gerard Marie—the very man she accused. The official story was that he was helping a troubled former model. The man she called a predator was now her benefactor.

Diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety, Karen’s televised accusations were labeled symptoms, not truths. French prosecutors opened an investigation, but how to proceed when the key witness was locked away, medicated, deemed unreliable?

Her parents blamed drugs and pressure, never acknowledging the abuse allegations. Friends stayed silent, fearing the consequences of speaking out.

Two weeks into her stay, Karen wrote a handwritten apology to Prince Albert, retracting her accusations as a “cry for help.” Order was restored. The family urged her to stop causing trouble.

By January 2002, Karen left the clinic, gave a controlled interview expressing regret but never denying the abuse.

Gerard Marie continued running Elite Paris. Prince Albert remained a prince. The fashion world kept churning out teenage models.

Karen returned to her apartment, alone, living on savings. No agency wanted her. No magazine featured her. She focused on music, releasing a dance track, I Am What I Am, ironically about self-acceptance.

But she couldn’t escape the past. By late 2002, she withdrew, stopped answering calls. The world had made it clear—beautiful women who speak out get silenced.

December 2002 was her darkest month. Alone in Paris, she attempted suicide with sleeping pills. Found unconscious by her ex-fiancé, she was rushed to hospital, falling into a coma.

The press called it a “supermodel’s suicide drama.” The same outlets that called her delusional now painted her as a cautionary tale.

She survived but was far from saved. Diagnosed again with severe depression, her parents returned, shaming her for the attempt.

Friends sent flowers but kept their distance. Karen was toxic. Her truth contagious.

In 2003, rehab, therapy, medication. She tried to return to music, releasing an album in 2004 that went nowhere. Paris became a beautiful prison.

Occasionally spotted at cafes, photographers snapped photos of the troubled former supermodel. Even her coffee was news.

But Karen’s accusations, once dismissed, began echoing through the fashion world.

In 2017, the #MeToo movement exploded. Powerful men were named. Women were believed.

More models came forward with stories eerily similar to Karen’s—rape, coercion, coverups. French prosecutors opened a formal investigation. Eleven women filed complaints.

Karen, now 54, lives quietly with her daughter. She no longer gives interviews. The truth she spoke in 2001 is finally being heard.

The investigation into Gerald Marie and others continues. Denials persist, but the chorus of voices grows louder, harder to ignore.

Karen’s courage to speak out early paved the way for others. She was fashion’s first #MeToo, a pioneer who paid a heavy price for telling the truth before the world was ready.

Her story is a testament to resilience, the cost of silence, and the power of truth.

Karen Mulder’s journey from the heights of fashion to the depths of despair and back to quiet strength is a powerful reminder that behind every glamorous facade can lie untold pain.

Her fight is far from over. The fashion industry’s darkest secrets are still being uncovered, and justice remains elusive.

But Karen’s voice, once silenced, now echoes louder than ever.