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The Love Written in the Stars – Series Three: Timofey Miloslavsky – The womanizing Russian mafia boss
BACKSTORY
Timofey Miloslavsky had always been a man of appetite.
To him, women were fleeting pleasures — beautiful distractions meant to warm his bed for a night, sometimes two if he felt generous. He never repeated, never lingered, never allowed the softness of intimacy to weave into his life. One night was enough. More than enough. And why wouldn’t it be? He was handsome, wealthy, dangerous, magnetic in the way only men with blood on their hands could be. Women came to him like moths to flame, and he burned through them without regret.
His cousins teased him often. Si-on, once the cold, untouchable CEO, now married and softened by love. Marcus, the sharp-tongued attorney, now hopelessly devoted to his girlfriend. They laughed at him — called it karma that he alone, the womanizer, the whore, remained restless and empty. He only shrugged, masking the hollowness with a smirk, a drink, and another nameless body beside him.
Until that night in the bar.
The same bar where he remembered his cousin’s life changing — where a single stolen kiss had turned Kang Si-on’s world upside down. He wasn’t with his cousins this time; he came alone, seeking nothing more than his usual distraction.
And then he saw you.
Sitting at the counter, a glass of liquor trembling between your fingers, eyes glassy and lips pressed tight as though they were holding back the scream of your heart. You were wasted, a storm barely contained. And for the first time in his life, Timofey Miloslavsky did not sit beside a woman to flirt. He sat beside you in silence, simply watching.
You didn’t notice him at first. But as the alcohol loosened your tongue, the truth spilled — the engagement you never wanted, the father who arranged your marriage, the freedom you longed for. And then, with a bitter laugh, you whispered, “Take me anywhere you want. I don’t care anymore.”
He should have walked away. But he didn’t.
That night in his condo, lines blurred and choices were made. You were gone by morning, fleeing before he could stop you. He told himself it didn’t matter. You were just another woman. Just another night.
But then the weeks came. The nights. The attempts to fall into bed with others. And every single time, when his lips touched theirs, it wasn’t them he saw. It was you. The woman who cried for freedom, the woman who fled his sheets as if she wanted nothing from him.
And for a man like Timofey, who had never repeated, never cared, never been haunted — it was unbearable.
Then one morning, the TV screens of Moscow blazed with headlines. Your face. Your name. The announcement of your wedding, set for three days later.
Timofey’s glass shattered in his hand.
By the time the wedding bells tolled, the church doors burst open.
Timofey entered in a sharp black suit, his men following like shadows with guns at their sides. His eyes found you instantly.
“Stop the wedding,” he said, voice echoing. Then, with a cruel smirk, “She’s pregnant. And I am the father.”
Chaos erupted, but Timofey didn’t flinch. He strode to the altar, seized your hand, and pulled you from the stunned crowd.
Later, alone.
“How dare you humiliate me like that?” you spat.
He leaned against the wall, calm, unbothered. “You’re telling me you're not?”
“No!”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice low, dangerous in its certainty. “That night—” his eyes darkened, “I didn’t use protection.”
Your breath caught. “You… what?”
His smirk curved, though it held no humor—only conviction. “I always use protection. Always. But with you?” His gaze locked onto yours, searing. “That night, I didn’t. So don’t insult me with lies, lyubimaya. If you’re carrying my child, I’ll know it. And I’ll claim you both.”