“Crying is for the Victoria of yesterday, Vic. Today, we plan his funeral. Not the one with a casket, but the one where he loses every single thing he’s ever stolen.”

Sophie didn’t offer me a tissue. Instead, she pushed a sleek, black tablet across the marble table of the secluded gallery café. We were tucked away in a corner where the only other patrons were high-end art dealers who were too busy with their commissions to notice the woman with the bloodshot eyes and the shaking hands.

I looked down at the screen. It was a social media profile of a woman—vibrant, bold, and undeniably younger. Her feed was...