Zero Stars But Five Star Revenge Chapter 1

Annual Performance Review. Once again, I was rated a zero-star Loan Officer.

I stared at the review sheet in my hand, the paper cheap and flimsy against my thumb.

Right there, in the comments section next to my name, the same line that had haunted me for years was stamped in bold:

[Contractor Status. Ineligible for Performance Grading.]

I asked the Branch Manager when I could finally transition to full-time.

Her answer was a broken record, skipping over the same scratched groove:

"Just keep your numbers up, Miles. It’s only a matter of time."

"A matter of time." I’d been waiting on that promise for seven years.

For seven years, I had been the mule. I originated more loans than anyone else in the branch.

I took home the lowest salary in the building.

Benefits? 401k matching? Health insurance? None of it applied to me.

This time, I didn't bother sending the email appealing the rating.

I was done. The illusion was shattered.

Thirty days from now, Manager Cole was going to look at her crimson-red quarterly projections and lose her absolute mind.

* * *

"Miles! Hey, get over here and help me haul this crap."

I sighed, the sound lost in the hum of the office AC. It was Todd, a senior officer who treated the bank like his personal country club.

I ripped the review sheet in half, then into quarters, and let the confetti drift into the recycling bin.

When I walked over, Todd was huffing and puffing, dragging a pallet of heavy cardboard boxes across the carpet.

"What’s inside, Todd?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He wiped sweat from his receding hairline, his tone sharp. "Why all the questions? Just lift."

My jaw tightened. In their eyes, I wasn't a colleague. I was hired help. A glorified intern with a seven-year tenure.

I didn't snap. Not yet. I bent my knees and helped him stack the boxes in the breakroom.

Todd leaned against the counter, catching his breath. "These are the holiday bonuses from Corporate. Gift baskets. Premium hams, wine, the works. Twenty-seven of 'em."

Twenty-seven?

"There are twenty-eight people working in this branch, Todd," I said.

Todd looked at me, a sneer curling his lip. It was a look of genuine confusion, as if I had claimed the sky was green.

"Who told you there are twenty-eight people? You don't count."

"You're just a contractor, Miles. Agency hire. You don't qualify for Corporate perks."

"You want a ham? Go ask your temp agency."

He waved his hand dismissively, like shooing a fly from a sandwich.

When they handed out bonuses, I was invisible.

When they needed quotas filled, I was "part of the family."

When they went to happy hour, I wasn't on the invite list.

But when the toilet clogged or the archives needed organizing? Miles, get in here.

Where exactly was I lacking?

I did the same job.

But I lived in a different economic reality.

Sure, the first year I was green. I had to learn the ropes. I missed my targets then.

But every year since? I didn't just meet the quota; I crushed it.

Year two: $2.5 million in personal loans. 6.5% of the branch's total.

Year three: $3.4 million. 9%.

Year four: $4.5 million. 12%.

...

This year: $7.8 million. 23% of the entire branch's output.

There were seventeen loan officers in this building.

I was miles ahead of the pack—pun intended. So why was I lesser?

My paycheck remained a stagnant pool: $2,800 a month, after taxes.

Commissions, quarterly bonuses, year-end profit sharing? If I saw a dime of that, it was a miracle.

When I pushed for answers, Manager Cole would lean back in her ergonomic chair and say, "You're agency, Miles. We can't adjust your comp until you're converted to FTE (Full-Time Employee)."

I believed her. I drank the Kool-Aid.

I spent seven years running myself ragged, chasing a carrot that was nailed to a stick.

And for what?

Where was my contract?

Nowhere.

Enough.

I went back to my cubicle—the small one near the bathroom—and printed my resignation letter.

A colleague walked by. "Whatcha printing? Loan apps?"

"Client files," I lied.

She smirked. "Oh, look at our Zero-Star Superstar. So dedicated."

I ignored the barb.

I took the resignation letter and drove straight to the staffing agency that legally employed me.

When I slapped the paper on the desk, the agency rep, a woman named Janice, looked up with confusion.

"Excuse me?"

I slid the paper forward.

She picked it up, her eyes widening. "Miles? You're quitting? You've been there seven years. You haven't converted to bank staff yet?"

She pulled my file, flipped it open, and actually laughed. A dry, rasping sound.

"Seven years. Zero-star rating every single year."

She looked up, her expression dripping with pity that felt a lot like mockery.

"You know, everyone else from your intake group converted years ago. The bank loves my recruits. They usually tell me I have an eye for talent. You're the only stain on my record."

"The others either had the numbers or the social skills. Why couldn't you just play the game?"

"No wonder you're quitting. Honestly, if you didn't leave, they were probably going to cut you loose. Ha."

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I forced the words out through gritted teeth.

"Just sign it."

She sighed, annoyed, and scribbled her signature.

"Thirty days notice. Then you're out. I'm not even going to call the bank; I'm too embarrassed. You tell them."

"And don't say I didn't warn you. The market is trash right now. If you couldn't make it work as a temp, what makes you think you'll survive out there?"

"Don't come crawling back here when you can't pay rent. I don't re-hire failures who can't close a conversion."

I stood up, buttoning my cheap suit jacket.

"I know exactly what I'm worth, Janice. You don't need to worry about me."

I turned and walked out, the bell on the door jingling behind me.

In the parking lot, I pulled a crumpled recruitment flyer from my pocket.

I hesitated for a long moment, staring at the number. Then, I dialed.

"Hi, this is Miles. I'm calling about the Senior Loan Officer position... Yes, the full-time role."

When I got the confirmation for an interview, I took a deep breath. The air tasted like exhaust fumes and freedom.

Come on, Miles. You can do this. Prove them wrong.