“I assume you’re calling on business. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to donate to a museum here. The California Literary Arts Museum.”
“Feeling philanthropic or looking for some accolades?” Jeremiah asked.
“Neither, really. But I suppose the first.”
“There’s no ask associated with the donation, then?”
“No.” Sebastian frowned, exasperation overtaking him.
"Sebastian." The condescension dripped through the phone like molasses. "The St. George Estate does not do things for free or for fun."
"Good thing I'm not the St. George Estate, then," he snapped.
It was just like Jeremiah, just like his whole family to only do something with the expectation that the St. George name would be emblazoned across it. Much like the McMillian donation to the University, nothing in Sebastian’s world was ever done without the promise of a return. Whether the return was financial or social didn’t matter.
"At least a wall plaque, Sebastian. Be reasonable."
“I want it to be anonymous,” he said again. The last thing he wanted was for Remington to find out he’d made the donation. He didn’t want things to get weird; he just wanted to dosomething.He wanted to do something for someone else by putting the money to good use, but he also wanted to do something for himself. He wanted to donate to the museum because it seemed like the right kind of thing to do, not because he wanted the damn placed renamed in his honor.
“Why the museum?" Jeremiah asked, clicking away at his keyboard.
“To fund their archival department.”
Jeremiah made a small noise of interest. “When do you want this donation to occur? If you time it near a holiday, I'm sure we can squeeze in a newsletter mention.”
“Today,” he said. “As soon as you can arrange it. And no newsletters. No plaques. No awards. Anonymous means anonymous, Jeremiah.”
“Alright, Sebastian. I hear you. How much are we talking?”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
“Dollars?”
“Thousand,” he clarified.
“Sebastian,” Jeremiah said. “We don’t throw that kind of money around for nothing. Your father and brother will have a fit.”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” he interrupted, not caring about anyone or anything in the moment. “Anonymous. Today.”
“Alright, Sebastian.” Jeremiah sighed. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Great, thank you.” Sebastian ended the call before he heard another noise of protest tumble out of Jeremiah’s mouth.
It was just shy of quarter after, which meant it was time for him to shower. The daily schedule from Allan was detailed and thorough, even including a time frame for him to jack off. If he couldn’t finish in the time allowed, he’d have to wait until the next day. The prospect of losing out on his pleasure sent sparks up his spine that had him coming well before the buzzer.
Every time.
When he got out of the shower, his phone vibrated with a message, and he took it into the kitchen, making himself a microwave waffle for breakfast. He sliced some strawberries, arranged it all on a plate, and snapped a picture.
He knew the message was from Allan, he knew what it was asking, and he sent the picture off before sitting down at his breakfast bar and taking a bite.
Good, came the prompt reply.
Thank you, he said before finishing his breakfast and sending off a picture of the empty plate to prove he’d eaten it.
He took his phone back into his office and swiped open to a new message box, typing out a lengthier message that scared him down to the marrow of his bones. But if he was brave enough to offer an anonymous gesture to Remington, he could manage this.
