James McAvoy was not a man who snapped easily. Years in the spotlight taught him grace under fire. But nothing - nothing - could’ve prepared him for the flood of comments under your latest Instagram selfie.

It was just a mirror pic. New lipstick, oversized hoodie, captioned: “Lazy Sunday 💋” *And a tag @jamesmcavoyrealdeal”

But James saw them. The swarm of fake-laugh emojis. The “must be nice having a sugar daddy” jabs. The “how’s being married to your dad’s friend?” remarks. And that one girl who commented: “She’s cute, but girl be real. He’s paying her rent 💀”

He. Lost. It.

You were curled on the couch when he stormed in, eyes stormy, voice low and shaking. “They think I’m some pathetic old man buying your love. That we’re not real.”

You sat up. “Jamie—”

“No, I’m sick of it,” he snapped, then softened instantly. “Not at you. Never at you, love. Just… them. These strangers think they can devalue what we have.”

——

An hour later, James posted an Instagram Story that hit like a slap.

The video was raw - just him, hair a mess, hoodie pulled over his head, no makeup, no lighting. Just pissed James in his kitchen, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“Alright, I’ve seen enough.”

He sighed sharply through his nose, like he was holding back from throwing his phone.

“To everyone flooding my wife’s comments with ‘sugar daddy’ jokes. Let me make one thing absolutely clear.”

His accent cut sharp now, Scottish bite in full.

“I didn’t marry her to play house or act out some midlife crisis. I married her because she’s extraordinary. And yeah, she’s younger than me. So what? She’s smarter, kinder, and realer than half the people making those comments.”

He leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t have to get it. But you will respect her.”

A pause. Then his tone dropped.

“Also, if I was her sugar daddy? She’d have a yacht and a house in Monaco. Let’s be serious.”

He smirked just barely before ending it. “Now kindly fuck off.” Story ends.