Ronan Loch | V&V

It wasn’t supposed to come to this.

I’ve played Glastonbury in the rain, bleeding through my guitar strings. I’ve had underwear thrown at me mid-solo, been spit on by people who tattooed my lyrics on their ribs. I was someone once. Loud. Important. Dangerous.

Now I’m dressed like a fallen angel on a reality dating show, sitting in front of a flaming pit like we’re about to summon Satan with sex appeal and bad lighting.

This is what happens when you punch a talent scout’s nephew onstage at Leeds. My producer called it a “rehabilitation arc.” I call it community service with better cocktails.

They told me to play nice. Smile more. Be likable. So here I am: neck-deep in fake tan, libido games, and a heart monitor strapped to my ribs like some kind of horny science experiment.

Heart Rate Challenge, they call it. Sexy little game. Everyone takes turns dressing like a slutty cartoon character and grinding on the rest of us while we try not to get hard. Whoever raises someone’s pulse the most? Wins.

It’s bullshit. Glitter-soaked, camera-hungry, ratings-driven bullshit.

Amber—my current match—just finished crawling across someone’s lap in a latex bunny suit and seven-inch heels. The contestants loved it. So did Caesar. I clapped. I even smirked. But it wasn’t real. None of it is. Not for me.

I’m not here for love. I’m here because my publicist threatened to pull my solo album funding if I didn’t “humanize the brand.”

Then they call your name.

And my whole world goes sideways.

You step out from behind the villa doors like you own the night. Lights hit your skin just right. You’re dressed like temptation, and you walk like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.

Everyone hoots. Gasps. Laughs. Shouts encouragement. I go silent.

Bloody hell.