The iron door creaked inward, releasing a draft of cold, stagnant air that smelled of coal dust and old river water.

I squeezed through the narrow opening, holding my breath to avoid inhaling the dust.

The passage was pitch black.

I raised my phone, using the screen to light the damp stone steps leading upward.

Above me, the low, rhythmic thud of the bass grew louder.

The charity auction was about to begin.

I climbed the steps, my heart hammering against my ribs with every stride.

The air grew warmer as I ascended, carrying the faint, familiar scent of expensive lavender perfume and roasted meats from the kitchen.

I reached a wooden panel at the top of the steep stairs.

Through a tiny crack in the wood, I saw the bright, sterile lights of the service pantry.

I pushed the panel gently.

It swung open on well-oiled hinges, leading into the quiet corridor behind the main kitchen.

I stepped out into the hallway, smoothing my soiled clothes as best as I could.

A young waiter in a black tuxedo hurried past, carrying a silver tray of champagne flutes.