From nine—sometimes eight—in the morning, until after seven at night. Donovan supervised. He guided and challenged her. But he fully expected her to carry most of the load. It would be her project in the truest sense. Which made it the chance of a lifetime for her, professionally. And also absolutely terrifying. She drove herself tirelessly and mostly managed to keep her fear that she might fail at bay. Donovan was not always there in the studio with her. He would set her a task or a problem to solve and then disappear, only to return hours later to check on her progress, to prod her onward. Often during the day, when he wasn’t with her, he took his personal elevator down to his underground gym to work with one of his physical therapists. Now and then, she would see them, Donovan’s trainers. And the massage therapists, too. They were healthy, muscular types, both men and women. They came and went by the kitchen door. Anton, the cook, who was big and barrel-chested with a booming laugh and long gray hair clubbed back in a ponytail, would sometimes feed them after they finished putting Donovan through his paces.
