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The air in the hospital smelled of antiseptic and desperation. I had spent too many nights here, listening to the whirl of fluorescent lights, and the hushed tones of nurses as they made their way from room to room, checking on patients with their last hours in front of them. The walls were beige, meant to calm, but all they could do was remind me of cold winters and empty pockets.

I clutched my bag tightly, my heart racing like a madman in my chest as I ran down the corridor. The bleach odor mixed with the acrid odor of medicine as I passed by the wards where the dying and the ill lay. I hated hospitals. I hated how they stole the people from you, bit by bit, until all that was left was a memory.

But I couldn't hate this one. Not when my brother was inside.

I made it to 304, pushing a hand over my stomach as I slowly opened the door.

Oliver lay in bed, his scrawny body barely even pressed into the mattress. His bright green eyes, once so bright a green, were hazy now, dull. His face was white.

The oxygen mask over his face looked huge, as if it was engulfing him.

"Hello, Ollie," I breathed, attempting to smile as I sat beside him.

His lips curled into a twitch, but it was a struggle. "You came," he breathed. His voice was faint, barely audible.

"Where else would I be?"

He tried to shrug, but the movement was nearly nonexistent. "I figured you had classes today."

I did. But what did it matter? Nothing mattered more than him.

Before I could respond, the door swung open and Dr. Patel strode in. A middle-aged man with a face that told of long days and short nights and a clipboard loaded with the fate of my world.

"Miss Stephens," he nodded in a way of greeting.

I swallowed, my hands clenched around Oliver's blanket. "Dr. Patel."

He nodded at Oliver, then at me, his face impassive. "Can we speak outside?"

I did not want to leave, but I nodded anyway. He pressed harder weakly, and I was able to break free.

Outside the doorway, Dr. Patel's expression became darker. "We have to talk about Oliver's state."

My breath caught. "I already know that it is terrible."

He voiced it lowly, without any hope behind it.

"It is more than terrible. It is escalating. What we've been giving him has only been slowing him down. The only recourse is the operation."

I understood that. I had understood it for months. But the surgery was expensive, too expensive.

"I'm working on it," I answered hastily, my voice cracking. "I'm trying to come up with the money."

His face turned gentle. "Valentine, you must understand. Oliver's time is running out. If you can't pay for the operation within a fortnight …"

He didn't finish the sentence, but I knew what he meant. If I couldn't pay the cash, Oliver would die.

"How much?" I panted.

"$2,500,000."

The room whirled around me. I steadied myself against the wall, my eyes going blank.

"$2.5 million?" I strained out.

"Yes," he said softly. "And I'm sorry, but we can't wait any longer."

I was having trouble getting air into my lungs. I'd only managed to save $5,000, barely a scratch in what I was going to require. Where the hell was I meant to find that kind of money?

Dr. Patel squeezed my shoulder softly. "I wish I had better news." I nodded blankly trying hard to fight my tears as he left.

Inside the room, Oliver was already sleeping. I sat next to him, smoothing his dark curls back as a tear rolled down my cheek.

I had two weeks, fourteen days to come up with the impossible and I had no clue where to begin.

I spent the next twenty-four hours looking for answers.

Loans? Denied. Charities? None would assist in time. Gambling? Ridiculous. Begging? There's no one to even beg.

I had so little time with even smaller options. Then, browsing the internet at two in the morning, I ran across a forum post on "private entertainment clubs" and how some women made thousands per night.

It wasn't me. I had never even dressed in anything shorter than mid-thigh. Stripping, selling my body, would make me sick but Oliver was dying and I had no other choice.

The club was just around the corner. A neon pink sign flickered above the door, a red shadow of an eerie nature cast on the ground. I hesitated, my stomach tied up in knots, before forcing myself inside.

Perfume and smoke filled the air. Music pulsed loudly through the room as topless women spun on poles, their bodies swaying flawlessly in time to the rhythm.

I longed to turn back outside but then I thought of Oliver and changed my mind instantly.

I stiffened my shoulders and approached the bar. A man in a suit looked at me, his eyes cold and judgemental.

"Are you here to work?" he asked, sounding very unimpressed.

I swallowed. "Yes."

His eyes ran over me before he sighed. "Have you ever done a job like this before?"

"No."

"Obviously." He nodded towards a door in the back. "Change. You get one dance. If the people are not impressed, you'll leave."

I numbly nodded and walked into the dressing room. Behind the curtain, women prepared themselves in makeup, tightened their bras, and slid into heels I'd never be able to put on.

I found a black lace set that was less revealing than most of the others and struggled it over my resistant body. A girl I barely recognized looked back in the mirror: wide, brown eyes, trembling hands, lips pressed into determination.

"You've got this," I muttered even though I didn't believe it.

The music started, and I stepped up onto the stage.The lights stung my eyes. The room whirled, I felt choked but I was determined.

Taking the dance floor, I tried swaying but my body was heavy, rigid. The men at the tables looked at me for only a fleeting moment before turning in the other direction.

I wasn't sexy. I wasn't hot, I was just desperate.

After a couple of torturous minutes, I stepped off the stage and into the dressing room, fighting back tears. It was over. I can never fit into this, I just needed to leave.

I decided to leave after rushing out of the ridiculous dress and putting mine back on. I had only just picked up my belongings when a bouncer approached me.

"Somebody asked for you."

My stomach dropped.