“Astra Quint,” she said, extending her hand, wondering what was in those drinks and if she could marry his bartender. “Vanity Fair. I promise no questions about which alien princess is wearing your shirts to breakfast.”
Matthew Marmaduke shook her hand without pause, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to be polite—maybe amused, maybe just sharp. Around them, the reception pavilion pulsed with life. Light acoustic rock played from a corner stage, mingling with the clink of glasses and soft tread of servers weaving between tables with trays of skewers, chilled drinks, and smoke-sweet hors d’oeuvres. Paper lanterns bobbed in the evening air. Someone laughed, loud and brief, near the dessert station.
“But I do have a real one,” she continued, letting go of his hand and matching his posture. “You’ve cultivated a mythos—farmer, father, philosopher king. You reject titles, but accept oaths. You flirt with power, then hand off the mic. So tell me straight: is this leadership by example, or narrative control? Because a lot of people are starting to wonder if Missouri didn’t just get its own monarch—with better boots.”
“I appreciate the restraint,” Matt said with a low chuckle. “I hadn’t heard that rumor yet. Though it does assume I’m getting laid.”
That earned a ripple of laughter from the nearby press corps. He let it sit, then nodded toward a group at the edge of the crowd. “See the tall pretty girl with the long dark hair, next to the blond?”
“She is beautiful,” Astra said, following his line of sight. “Is that your—”
“No,” he interrupted, lightly but firmly. “That’s my goddaughter, MJ. Also not into guys. She’s probably the source of that rumor. She’s been stealing my hoodies and sweatshirts for months, and once the buzz is loud enough, I fully expect to find them listed on Poshmark. The girl will do anything to avoid doing her laundry—including taking mine.”
Astra grinned. “Understood. But how would you describe your leadership style, then?”
“I lead by example,” he said, accepting a samosa from a passing tray and holding it like punctuation. “That means fixing what’s broken, taking the first hit when something fails, and stepping back when someone else is better for the job.”
He took a bite, chewed, then sipped from a sweating glass of iced tea before continuing.
“But yes, narrative control? I want it. Because the alternative is letting people who’ve never stepped foot here define what this place is. And if managing that perception gives the people around me—my staff, my family, my citizens—a shot at living normal lives in an abnormal world, then I’ll take that trade every time.”
He gestured toward the garden path where a V’ren toddler tugged a nurse’s sleeve, then back toward the crowd.
“Performance is survival. Satisfaction is retention. That’s the real check on power.”
Astra nodded, her voice softer now. “You’ve said access is a cornerstone here. What does that actually look like?”
“Any one of my citizens can knock on my door and demand a meeting,” Matt replied. “If they’ve held citizenship since my father’s or grandfather’s time, they can request one with twelve hours’ notice. Most don’t abuse it—but they could.”
He plucked a second bao from another tray, offered her the one he passed on.
“My father set the expectation at three days. I extended it to a week—seven thousand citizens now—but most requests are handled within forty-eight hours. We use the Freehold App. And we don’t just wait for issues to come to us. We conduct regular check-ins—residents, contract workers, transients. We monitor patterns. Disputes, migration, productivity, even emotional drift.”
Another pause. The music shifted again—this time a soft dobro line laid under a familiar melody. “Into the Mystic,” slow and clear.
“I’ve got a full internal team. Plus external audits. Satisfaction isn’t just a feeling here. It’s a performance metric. We measure it.”
“But the system still runs through you,” she said. “If something happens—tomorrow—who takes over?”
Matt didn’t hesitate.
“I took over when I was thirteen. My father died. I wasn’t ready—but I learned. Fast. Since I was seventeen, I’ve had named successors. I don’t broadcast who—not even to the family trust. I don’t need meddling from relatives with agendas.”
He took another drink, let it settle before he continued.
“They’re adults. No regency required. And I’ve designated a mandatory transition team to guide it. This isn’t a cult of personality. It’s a system. And it’s built to outlast me.”
The reception around them continued—babies fussed and their mothers excused themselves, laughter rolled from the northeast terrace, V’ren of rank chatted with Earth-born educators. Astra let her gaze drift, then returned to him.
“You don’t shy from visibility,” she said. “Myth matters.”
Matt’s smile returned—smaller now, weighted.
“I’m a student of history and know the power of symbols. I respect it. But myth without function is just ego.
“This place? It runs. People eat. Kids thrive. The lights stay on. The sick recover, and sometimes they don’t and die just like the old. Just like all of us will one day, if myth helps people believe that’ll still be true tomorrow—I’ll wear the crown. Just don’t expect me to polish it.”
She didn’t want to accept the drink he handed her, at least her professional self didn’t. Her last college girl remnants want one for each hand and some EDM.
“Then what do you hope they call this place? Civilization? Family? Or just… a place that didn’t fall apart?”
Matt winced at how much of his overproofed stock was being used tonight on reporters, as he sipped the bourbon punch.
“I hope they grow up. I hope they have kids here. I hope they call it home.”
