Having failed to break them with God, their families turned to a more temporal power: the law.
Eunice was summoned to the offices of Harding, Harding, & Finch, the law firm that had managed her family's estate for a century. The air in the waiting room was a thick, wood-paneled, old-money brown. It smelled of leather and entitlement.
She had insisted Karlman come with her. If this was another ambush, she wanted her ally. They were a united front.
Mr. Harding was a man who looked like he'd been born in a three-piece suit. He was all polished surfaces and practiced apologies. "Eunice, thank you for coming in. Mr. Dowman. A pleasure." His eyes lingered on Karlman for a half-second, a flicker of professional assessment, before he dismissed him.
"You said this was about the trust," Eunice said, sitting down. "Is there a problem?"
"Not a problem, no," Harding said, opening a thick, leather-bound portfolio. "A clarification. A... formality, given your new, uh... circumstances."
He slid a single sheet of paper across the mahogany desk. "Your father and your uncle, as trustees of the estate, have asked me to remind you of your obligations under the family charter."
"Charter?" Eunice had run her own finances for a decade. "I manage my own portfolio. The trust is just... background."
"It is the foundation, Eunice," Harding said, his tone gently corrective. "It is the legal entity that controls your shares in the family's holding company. And it is governed by a charter, established by your great-grandfather in 1923. Specifically, Article 4, Section 2. The 'Continuance Clause.'"
Karlman leaned forward, his analyst brain engaging. "Continuance of what?"
"Of the family's financial and reputational integrity," Harding said, reading from the document. "It states... 'any primary beneficiary'—that's you, Eunice—'who enters into a marital contract...'"
"A-ha," Eunice said, her voice flat. "Here it is."
Harding cleared his throat, ignoring her. "'...a marital contract deemed by the board of trustees to be detrimental to the family estate, its name, or its financial holdings...'"
"And 'detrimental' is defined by whom?" Karlman asked. "The board? Her father and her uncle."
"That is correct," Harding said. "It was a clause written to prevent... let's say, 'hostile takeovers' of a more... personal nature."
"He thinks I'm a gold-digger," Karlman said, his voice void of emotion.
"He thinks I'm a fool," Eunice corrected, her gaze locked on the lawyer. "What are the consequences of this 'detrimental' marriage, Mr. Harding? Let's get to the verdict. I'm getting quite used to them."
Mr. Harding looked, for the first time, uncomfortable. "Upon the signing of a marriage license not approved by the board, your status as a primary beneficiary is... frozen. Your access to the principal trust is suspended. Your voting shares in the holding company are re-absorbed by the estate and redistributed to the other beneficiaries. In short, Eunice... you would be disinherited."
Silence. This was the one they'd been waiting for. The final move. The "A-list" society was built on two things: religion and money. They had now come for both.
Eunice stared at the paper. This wasn't just her "allowance." This was her identity. Her "A-type" success, her firm, her clients... all of it was built on the foundation of her family's name and the unshakeable power of that trust. They weren't just taking her money. They were taking her armor.
Karlman said nothing. He watched her. He saw her mind working, calculating the staggering, life-altering loss. He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes.
Eunice took a slow, deep breath. Then she looked up at Harding. And she smiled. A cold, sharp, terrifying smile.
"He really thinks this will stop me," she said, almost to herself. "He thinks I'm my mother. He thinks I'm so afraid of losing all of... this..." she gestured at the opulent office "...that I'll just fall back in line."
"Eunice," Karlman said quietly, "this is your entire life. Your legacy."
"He's right," she said to Harding. "This union is detrimental. It's detrimental to their control. It's detrimental to their idea of who I'm supposed to be."
She stood up. Karlman stood with her.
"Thank you for clarifying, Mr. Harding. Please send a copy of the charter to my personal email. And please," she leaned forward, her voice a low, vicious purr, "send my father my regards. I want you to tell him... I've never been more certain of anything in my life."
She walked out of the office, her head held high. The second the heavy oak door clicked shut, she sagged against the wall in the hallway. Her hands were shaking violently.
"My God, Karlman," she whispered. "They're actually doing it. They're going to burn it all to the ground."
He took her shaking hands in his. "Let them," he said, his voice fierce. "We'll build our own. I don't need their legacy, and you don't either."
She looked at him, her partner, her co-conspirator. He was right. She straightened her suit jacket, the 'A-type' returning. "You're right. Let's go get our marriage license."