It took no time at all for Wanda to lose Jessica in the crowd, and so she'd spent most of the party as everyone else had; wandering from room to room and enjoying what each had to offer and, as the night wore on, those offerings became downright bacchanalian. A large game of strip poker, a man in a tie and boxer shorts on all fours braying like a donkey as his friends cheered, a garden fountain filled with wine and caked in mud where it'd been dragged in from outdoors. Earlier exploits of the night had already become legend, the stories moving further from truth with every retelling.
By the small hours of the night, Wanda had exhausted her interest in the antics of the party, ready for a reprieve from the bodies and noise. Plucking a drink from a passing tray, she exited into a back hallway that seemed to lead away from the party rooms. Which didn't mean the party's detritus hadn't spilled over where it didn't belong. A woman sobbed surrounded by her friends, a man with his back to the hall seemed to be relieving himself in a potted plant, a group of three people were passed out on one another on a pile of monogrammed hotel towels ostensibly stolen from a nearby open supply closet. A peek beyond a set of swinging doors revealed a tiny industrial kitchen where a server, his tray of hors d'oeuvres balanced precariously on the counter he leaned against, was in flagrante with a socialite in Louboutions (Wanda couldn't help but admire the stilettos). When the man involved caught her eye and held it, Wanda backed out and let the doors swing shut. Sure now that she was out of bounds of the party, but apparently not the festivities, she turned back into the hall unsure of what she'd find next.