An incisive workplace satire and twisty murder mystery featuring a young executive assistant who realizes the peril in being diligently attentive to her boss’s whims.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from L.S. Stratton’s In Deadly Company, which releases on September 2nd 2025.
As the assistant of the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, Nicole Underwood has plenty of tasks on her to-do list—one of which is the blowout birthday celebration for her nightmare, one-percenter boss, Xander Chambers. But when the party ends in chaos and murder and Nicole is one of the survivors, suspicion—from the investigators to the media—lands on her. Was she the reason for all the bloodshed?
A year after those deadly events, Nicole tries to set the public record straight by agreeing to consult on a feature film based on her story. However, on the set in LA, she’s sidelined by inappropriate casting and persistent, bizarre script changes, while also haunted by the events of that party weekend with visions of her now-deceased boss. It seems clearing her name isn’t so simple when the question of guilt or innocence is…complicated.
Chapter 1
“Ben!” a voice barks behind me. “Jesus Christ, can’t you do anything right?”
When I hear it, I have an almost primal response, even though my name is Nicole, not Ben. Even though the person who used to snap at me like that is long dead.
Like a lactating mother who hears her infant’s wails in the middle of the night, or a hungry dog who stumbles upon the most fragrant slab of Wagyu beef miraculously abandoned on a city sidewalk, I have an instant physical reaction. My muscles tense. My heart starts racing. Beads of sweat form on my upper lip.
I forget that I’m in Los Angeles, sitting on a banquette next to the concierge desk at a luxury hotel, sipping complimentary espresso while I wait for my driver to arrive to take me to a film set. Instead I’m hurled back more than a year ago when I was standing on the seventy-fifth floor of a high rise in Manhattan and my boss Xander
Chambers is asking me why I couldn’t finagle him a last-minute invitation to the Met Gala.
“Well, fuck me!” Xander cried in exasperation. “Elon’s gotten in at least twice. You’re telling me I can’t get one little invite?”
“Xander, they probably come up with the guest list a year in advance . . . and it’s four days away,” I replied.
“Which should be plenty of time for a good assistant,” he said before popping a CBD gummy into his mouth.
But I was a good assistant. One of the best, actually.
“I’ll keep trying,” I insisted.
He stared at me for a long time, still chewing. “Yeah, you do that,” Xander finally said.
I then watched as he swiveled around in the custom ergonomic chair made with 150- year- old trees from some remote Scandinavian forest. He faced the floor-to-ceiling windows, turned his back to me, and answered the call in his earbuds.
“John, you asshole, so you finally called me back,” he said with a laugh. “What’s up?”
I now look up to find a potbellied, balding man dressed in all- white linen and striding toward the hotel’s sliding glass doors. He doesn’t resemble Xander in looks but certainly does in attitude. There’s something in his strut that conveys his sense of entitlement, like an invisible red carpet is stretched out before him. The model-type blonde walking beside him, who seems to be one- third his age and also dressed in all white (a mini slip dress and thong sandals), is the obligatory accessory for men like him.
Trailing behind them both, juggling two cell phones, a leather satchel, and a Louis Vuit-ton suitcase, is a bespectacled, beleaguered-looking young man I quickly guess is Ben. It’s evident from the way he flinches when the man in linen rants, “Never again! Never again will I let you book me a suite in this dump. Next time we’re staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. You hear me?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Ariti,” Ben mumbles before his boss walks through the sliding glass doors.
As he passes the banquette where I sit, Ben and I momentarily lock gazes. Over the lip of my coffee cup, I give him a small smile of reassurance. I’ve been where he’s been. Felt how he’s probably feeling right now. And, if it hadn’t been for the events of the three most tumultuous days of my life more than a year ago, I would probably still be in his place.
Ben doesn’t acknowledge my smile, though. His eyes guiltily dart away and he picks up his pace, almost dropping his suitcase. His boss shouts, “Ben, let’s go! We don’t have all day!”
“Y-y-yes, sir. Sorry, Mr. Ariti,” he mutters as he dashes through the parted doors.
I watch as a bellhop, pushing a loaded-down luggage cart, pulls up the rear, and the sliding glass doors close behind them.
